Category Archives: Intelligence Community

TOR hackers, the CIA, the task most dangerous, humor

Just to inject a bit of humor into the situation here in these USA, I poke fun at myself, and let my associations run wild. Come along for the ride. You won’t be disappointed.

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The hit to the blog above had ultra-inaccurate Verizon Fios geolocators pointing to McLean[!], Tysons Corner[!], D.C.[!], and – as always – Charlottesville, in other words, to about five million other people and surely just a mistaken click on the blog… but, just to say, the TOR hackers disappeared all at the same time, all of them, just like that, totally.

Hahaha. In other words, it’s a good thing to keep a sense of ultra-light-hearted-humor in what are stressful times for many people, what with Covid policy treated as legislated law, what with the obvious fraud amounting to a coup d’état, what with religious rites still being smacked down by those who hate God and neighbor, our Constitutional Republic of, by and for the people, by those who hate the Rule of Law. Let yourself enjoy a bit of humor! Remember what Saint Lawrence said when he was being burned to death on a grid-iron: “You can turn me over now; I’m done on that side.” No matter how bad things can get, know that Jesus intends to bring us to heaven. And don’t forget, the CIA can continue full on with no government funding for multiple administrations of any POTUS.

Besides being steadfast in the faith only by the grace of God, besides keeping a sense of humor, I myself like also to fall back into nostalgia for a bit of wonderful distraction. So, when places like McClean and Tysons Corner come up, my first reaction is to render due honor where due honor is due. It’s like someone saying a word and then you have to say the first word that comes to mind. In this case, I instantly turn to this event honoring the great Joyce Kilmer, which happened a couple of years ago, when yours truly had the great honor of honoring this Catholic giant of poetry, this spectacular Catholic giant of the Intelligence Community. I wrote about it then. Here’s some of that post:

CIA MEMORIAL LANGLEY

July 30, 2018, was the 100th anniversary of death by sniper of forward field intelligence officer Joyce Kilmer. He’s personally the heroic example of what would become the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) which would itself turn into the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA, the Central/Catholic Intelligence Agency, doesn’t much treat Kilmer as a forerunner, but in my opinion, they should.

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Descendants of Joyce Kilmer were there. The VFW was there in force, including the State and National Commanders. There were bagpipes, the bugle for Taps, the 21 gun salute.

After offering a few religious words about heroism and then enjoying the privilege of reciting the entirety of Kilmer’s Rouge Bouquet included below, I had the honor of commanding that honors be rendered. Here’s that ceremony:

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JOYCE KILMER: Memorial – Rev. George David Byers
July 30, 2018 – Centenary Memorial Service – Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

Joyce Kilmer was enthusiastically respected in all good friendship by his brothers in arms back in the day, a lively respect which continues today as we are now witnessing one hundred years later. Anyone who is profoundly immersed in their own times remains at one with us in all times. Joyce Kilmer is a hero because he leads us back to ourselves and who we are before God. Joyce’s poetical intervention about, say, any tree being awesome because of being just another tree, but made by God is an analogy bringing us into the lived reality of who any one of us is to be as a hero.

Like so many others in our topsy turvy society with wars and rumors of wars, in our day as people did in Joyce’s day, I have searched for heroism if not in all the wrong places then surely in all the wrong ways. Growing up in a military family, my father having been trained up at Parris Island as a Marine Fighter Attack Pilot in Guam, the Philippines, Japan, China and Korea, having been commander of the famed Checkerboard Squadron, I have bragged about him as my hero, perhaps making him too extra special. Joyce Kilmer knew there was a danger to making one tree more special than all the others, a danger of not seeing that we are all made by God, the danger of thinking that this other fellow is a hero so I don’t have to be one. That’s not the kind of respect a real hero wants.

At the same time I would go out of my way to greet any veteran I might see at a gas station or a supermarket or at church. I’ve learned NOT to say, “Thank you for your service,” as I would often get a half-hearted, or sad, or almost cynical if polite acknowledgment in return. To say “Thank you for your service” almost seems ungrateful to the very veteran before whom one stands, being thankful perhaps only for his or her service in unrepeatable circumstances so very far away, a fog of war that any veteran struggles to recount to anyone, a service which, therefore, is in danger of being forgotten if heroism is merely about things done, if heroism is just that specialized, that distant, that out of reach, my usual mistake of “he’s the hero so I don’t have to be one.”

To veterans then, I’ve learned NOT to say “Thank you for your service,” but simply, “Thank you.” The acknowledgment is immediate, sincere, one of appreciated solidarity. And yet, even in this thanksgiving there can still be something missing about the heroism Joyce Kilmer lived out, the heroism which won him the enthusiastic respect in all good friendship of his brothers in arms and of our own respect today.

An Army friend of mine who was taken up as a field agent of the CIA much along the lines of Joyce becoming a kind of distant forerunner of the best of our CIA operatives, reprimanded me, saying that I had much to learn about thanking any veteran. He said that a hero isn’t someone you thank so much as strive to imitate with intensity of service at whatever cost. That’s it, thought I foolishly. Striving to imitate intensity of service is a real compliment, a real thanksgiving, and goes a long way and is what any veteran would like to see from anyone. But it still isn’t the full story and is certainly not quite yet an appreciation of the kind of heroism lived out by Joyce Kilmer.

We’ve all heard veterans of foreign wars like Marcus Luttrell or Robert O’Neill say it; we’ve all heard our friends in Law Enforcement and Firefighting say it; I’m certain that most who are here today have said it, as heroes: “I’ve done nothing special.” And then they add what our Lord said we will all say should we make it into the gates of heaven: “I’ve only done what I had to do.” There are those who think that this is what humility is all about, misunderstanding this as some sort of self-deprecation. But they miss the point. This isn’t false humility to say “I’ve done nothing special.” It is to say in Joyce Kilmer’s analogy, that any tree is awesome among any other trees, each having been made by God, so that each tree, each person is to do what they have to do, what they’ve been given to do, what they’ve been called to do in whatever impossibly unrepeatable circumstances they happen to be in. We’re all called to be heroes.

What was so attractive about Joyce Kilmer to his brothers in arms and to us today is that he knew he had what we can all have by way of God: we can all have a love that is stronger than death, a love stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” said Joyce Kilmer again and again. A love stronger than death given by God. That’s what we recognize as what we are all to have, a love stronger than death given by God; this is who we are all to be, one who lives out what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our impossibly unrepeatable circumstances. What makes the hero is that which all can have, this God given love which is stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!”

So said the eternal Word of God the Father: let me have the most dangerous assignment; let me stand in their place, the innocent for the guilty, so that I might have the right in my own justice to have mercy on them. And we know what happened next: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life,” eternal life, a love stronger than death, the eternal Son of God, our warrior of goodness conquering evil because giving us of his love that is stronger than death so that we might also say: “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” Jesus is the One hero, and we are all heroes in him, recognizing before this love that is stronger than death that is offered to us all, that we then do, in thanksgiving, what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our own unrepeatable circumstances, as in Joyce’s day, so in our own. The thanksgiving that our hero veterans want to have is that we all become heroes.

My own prayer this day is that those who visit this forest, coming into contact with the eternal Creator of creation, might find out about the heroism of Joyce Kilmer, the heroism we can all have with that God-given love that is stronger than death, that love which is eternal. Only God can make a tree. Only God can make a hero. We thank God for all our heroes, begging that we might strive to imitate intensity of generosity by living out in our everyday circumstances, with enthusiasm, that love which is stronger than death. Thank you, Joyce. Thanks to all our veterans. Thanks to all our heroes. Thanks to Jesus for giving us a love stronger than death.

The Rouge Bouquet

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing: “Go to sleep! Go to sleep!
Slumber well where the shell screamed
and fell.
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger’s past;
Now at last, Go to sleep!”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet
A delicate cloud of bugle notes
That softly say: “Farewell! Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!”

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From the Catholic funerary rites:

Saints of God, come to their aid! Come to meet them angels of the Lord!
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
May Christ, Who called you, take you to Himself; may angels lead you to Abraham’s side.
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
Let us pray: We commend our brothers and sisters to you, Lord. Now that they have passed from this life, may they live on in Your presence. Amen.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Render honors…

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Filed under hacking, Humor, Intelligence Community

Fr Byers, the FBI investigated you how many times? We want files! My real ID.




cia memorial

[[ This is put up again for a reason, years after I put it up originally, and with some revisions. ]]

Here’s the high pressure repeated request from a self-described [ex-?]CIA guy who’s now […] as cover: “Father Byers, the FBI investigated you how many times? We want files! Who are you, anyway?”

Playing along with this kind of interview, um… interrogation… can be fun for me because I like nostalgia, a lot. He baits and is thus baited back, a counterintelligence dance: which investigations do I know about, or do I know what my ID really is? Who am I anyway? ;-)

The short answer to the question about who I am and how many investigations there have been on me is this: I’m nobody. And I don’t know how many investigations. Maybe just one, as in lifelong and continuous. I would dearly love to see those “files”.

The [ex-?]CIA guy’s question (going after me and my parishioners incessantly) is incomplete and therefore inadequate. Not so smart. He said he only wants files merely from the FBI? I mean, go ahead and include the CIA (“Dedicatio par aevum” memorial pictured up top, but I guess he would already have those…) and DEA and BATFE and DHS and ICE and TSA and, most importantly, Counterintelligence for Consular Services at the Department of State and Diplomatic Security in Rosslyn. Be sure to include the dozen and a half other groups. In fact, include all those groups who were subpoenaed but who refused to answer the questions of Jason Chaffetz’s congressional investigation into Fast and Furious. Jason was ignored even though he was Congressional Chairman of Oversight. So, good luck with that, especially since I’ve been told by Main State that anything related to me has long been destroyed, the normal practice upon being placed into a perpetual interdepartmental program. Go ahead and ask for such files. Just know you might be asked, with polygraph, why you’re asking. Could be a career ending move, or send you to prison.

My rap sheet: No felonies. No misdemeanors. Ever. Nothing pending. Nothing ever having been pending. No courts. No settlements. And nothing having been “wiped” from the record. Well… There are some things that may have disappeared from my rap sheet as one sheriff told me when I asked him about it – disappeared things such as being pulled over for not wearing a seat belt when I was constantly starting and stopping to deliver meals to the home-bound for the soup kitchen. The cop admitted later that he ticketed me for purely political reasons. Anyway, that citation was, like, back in I think 2012. I found out at the court house that no one knew enough to grant permission about the statute at the time that permitted no usage of a seat belt in such conditions of constant service deliveries with permission. I can recall other times getting pulled over, like when my sister was teaching me to drive when I was twelve years old in 1972 (going on five decades ago) and I ran a trick stop sign that was posted inches behind a light pole so that it couldn’t be seen. Other occasions do come to mind. For instance, I remember I was going a little fast – like 5 miles over – in making the 1000+ mile trip to my dying dad’s bedside some decades ago. You get the idea.

A longer than short answer: I guess it would take an autobiography to even scratch the surface. I’ve had a pretty wild life. There was a time when I’m guessing that for a short while I was a most researched person in these USA. But, what do I know? That’s just a guess judging from the blog stats of hits from named and therefore not much secured servers of pretty much every intelligence HQ in these USA and around the world. You know the drill: USAIC, NNIC, DHS, DOD, DOJ, BATFE, IRS[!], SSA[!], FBI, CIA, Interpol, The Hague[!], etc., in so many centers for each all around, making the stats fly, scrolling quickly off screen, zip zip zip. I should see if I still have some screen shots from years gone by. Probably anomalous interest, right? If these were the named hits, I have to wonder what the blind hits were. It is what it is. At any rate, let me guess about a few incidents which may have instigated Federal research on yours truly now and again.

  • It’s just now just over four years ago in late 2020 since I’ve received my concealed carry handgun permit here in North Carolina, which has (in some cases by far) one of the more stringent series of local, state (SBI) and federal (FBI) background checks in these USA, a fact opening up North Carolina to reciprocity in most states of these USA. North Carolina even adds what amounts to presently illegal (because of duration, many months) checks into mental health. No records of that for me.
  • I got my Gold-Star driver license / “Real ID” when that was a thing and had to renew again in time for the election. This involves some pretty stringent background checks as well on Local, State and Federal levels.
  • I’ve been fingerprinted and checked all over the world, not for any particular reason that I could put a finger on, as it were, outside of association and location, you know, just because I happened to be in terribly dangerous places really a lot with lots of terribly dangerous people, people who have killed really a lot of people, or who are in charge of the militaries of their countries, et al. So, it finally becomes the ol’ “Who are you anyway?” kind of thing, literally, pretty much everywhere. Embassies literally ask that question in frustration, not being able to get a grasp of what good old Diplomatic Security can do. Sigh. I mean, it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. It’s so predictable.
  • I’m still thinking about gathering some dates and info and documentation so as to sign up in the near future for Global-Entry, a jacked up version of TSA pre-check which involves checks even more stringent than for the NC firearms checks. This was still a thing in June 2020, except of course for uncooperative New York: see the CBP website. G-E involves checks against criminal and law enforcement indices (Federal, State, Local), customs, immigration, agriculture, and terrorist indices including biometric fingerprint checks and a personal interview (That‘s surely a well experienced interrogator). All the checks are not listed here. It’s a pretty long, exhaustive list. Fun!
  • Just because of past lives, as it were, I’ve recently called in some items related to financial groups and terrorism to, for instance – depending on the subject – Main State, Liberty Crossing Campus, the FBI. You can’t do such things without first being extremely thoroughly vetted by the FBI from multiple locations and on all sorts of levels. That particular and fairly recent investigation took fully two months: I was cleared by all FBI research centers spread throughout these USA and… So, fine. These series of checks are so comprehensive that they pretty much add up to joining any of our institutes or agencies minus the polygraphs. Thoroughness cannot be underestimated. Oddly, the guy taking the financial case wanted to know about terrorism. I mean, he asked about it like a half dozen times. Oh, I forgot, terrorism and financial malfeasance often go together. My bad. I finally told him to launder such amounts of money usually involves terrorist groups and, therefore, their financing. He knew I knew, and it all went forward.
  • Of course, Main State and the FBI do not put one on a perpetual interdepartmental program for no reason. It costs them resources, financial and personnel, who have to track me and, to them, my boring life. My consolation is that there’s a tiny chance that they will be inspired by at least some of the things I write. Once you’re on a program, you’re on. That’s it, forever, as the FBI strongly insisted with me, drilling this into me, way back in 1996, four years after Main State insisted on this with me in 1992. There’s no way off as there’s nothing remaining after destruction of files [Ooops! There goes those “files” the guy mentioned at the top of this post was is pressuring me about!] in order to base a new decision upon. It’s like the seal of confession. Even if the penitent gives you permission to break the seal you can’t break the seal. Someone could be putting him/her under some sort of coercion to request such a thing against his/her will (regardless of what he/she says). The information doesn’t belong to the priest. It belongs to Jesus. The same here: even if I request to get off the program I cannot do so. It’s beyond unmasking. It’s frustrating. There are summaries only with the Secretary of State and the Director of the CIA. Part of the program is to be “accompanied,” even in a terribly annoyingly obvious way, especially at airports and inside airplanes (as I was forewarned about). In analyzing this, the guy I call “The Guy” [an actual CIA guy] told me that this is meant to send a message to the idiots: If you mess around with this program you will be stopped. However annoying this can be, it’s also kinda nice. This started decades ago, perhaps when I was a teenager, in the mid-late 1970s. I need to write more about it. As mentioned above, Diplomatic Security on behalf of Counterintelligence for Consular Services established someone with secured alternative identities, as they do, the problem being that it’s my identity, that being convenient, as that guy is like the same age and looks like me, and still, after a lifetime, has my life experiences in the countries where I’ve been, and, as far as I can tell, many of my languages. He works for them. I’m groomed as the fall guy. This is the case for thousands of people in these USA. The difference with me is that I found out.
  • More recently, seemingly in April of 2018, this was all jacked up a bit. Already being in the area for something else, I had gone to FBI ATLANTA to talk about options for that perpetual interdepartmental program mentioned above. I was delayed for some twenty minutes from approaching the security building, that is, until CTU Virginia showed up. We parked together. The last two spots. He accompanied me twice to the security building (as I forgot my passport and had returned to my car to get it). He delivered a printout and entered while I was told to just go to the window. That printout was given to the agent who looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, looked at me, set it down, shoved it toward me and said that he has no one presently there who can speak to this. I was able to read the author’s name and the provenance of the printout, DOD DARPA. Good old nerdy DARPA. They created some mathematical complexities using massive amounts of intel that they’ve categorized and turned into that which is actionable in the field for whatever “target” they have on “the list.” That, of course, makes me, again, one of the most highly researched people in the world. Huge amounts of resources are used for such targets. Just Google “DARPA COMPASS”. I assume that this, in my regard, is simply meant to assist whomsoever in my being “accompanied” (to use Pope Francis’ terminology). As I’ve written previously, I once told the guy who was established with my identity (yes, I’ve spoken with him) that I regret the cost of such accompaniment, but he instantly cut me off before I could even finish to say that such costs are entirely negligible in view of the scope of the entire program. He cut himself off half-way through “program”, knowing he said too much.
  • I’ve been involved in one way or the other in numerous terrorist incidents [always on the right side of things, mind you], but enough to be further investigated through the decades by a number of countries, including the Holy See, Italy, these USA, Australia and, with some intensity at the highest military, intelligence levels, Israel. It is what it is. Try asking for their files on me, you know, like in המוסד. Good luck with that one too. I mean, would they give you something that had nothing to do with the real file? ;-) Either way, when you get those “files,” [pfft!] share them with me! Baiting for leakers is fun. I might even find out what is held to be my real ID. This quickly disintegrates into rabbit holes of counterintel mind games until, gaslighted, one can’t remember who one is anymore:

Having been trained into some basic counterintelligence as a teenager by a very special individual, I’ve never done the Jason Bourne thing. I never had to. In all of this, I apologize to sincere and patriotic agents of all our military and intelligence and law enforcement agencies. I poke fun at myself. I don’t mean to poke fun at you.

Meanwhile, to repeat, the reason for all the investigation thing is not because I’m special – oooh! special! – No. I’m a nothing. Nobody. And that’s the reason my identity was so conveniently used. I’m utterly expendable, truly nothing. I don’t count as a citizen of these U.S.A. I mean, the FBI were adamant about giving me an alternative identity so that I, as Father George David Byers, and a citizen in good standing, would just be disappeared. No more priesthood, no more family, no more decades of studies, all in favor of the guy who works for them and for whom I’m merely the fall guy.

I hope to be a citizen of heaven in future. You gotta have hope, right? The original sin in which I’ve post-hoc participated, and all my own sin, is all written out in the wounds of the Divine Son of God, now risen from the dead. It’s in Him that we find our identity as redeemed and saved so as to walk in humble thanksgiving in His presence, in His friendship. Saint Paul speaks of this as the Body of Christ, Jesus being the Head of the Body, we being the members. That’s the ID I want to have. Jesus is the One. He’s the only One. And He’s the one to judge us, who we are before Him. He will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire.

But you can’t get to know Jesus and know who you are, your “real ID” – Jesus’ love and truth and integrity – until you go to Confession. A lot. With sincerity. I do. That’s who I am: just another soul who goes to Confession, and no investigation will be able to provide anything more. Why? Because I know the following and so should we all:

Psalm 139 For the leader. A psalm of David. Oh LORD, you have probed me, you know me: you know when I sit and stand; you understand my thoughts from afar. My travels and my rest you mark; with all my ways you are familiar. Even before a word is on my tongue, LORD, you know it all. Behind and before you encircle me and rest your hand upon me. Such knowledge is beyond me, far too lofty for me to reach. Where can I hide from your spirit? From your presence, where can I flee? If I ascend to the heavens, you are there; if I lie down in Sheol, you are there too. If I fly with the wings of dawn and alight beyond the sea, Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand hold me fast. If I say, “Surely darkness shall hide me, and night shall be my light” — Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day. Darkness and light are but one. You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb. I praise you, so wonderfully you made me; wonderful are your works! My very self you knew; my bones were not hidden from you, When I was being made in secret, fashioned as in the depths of the earth. Your eyes foresaw my actions; in your book all are written down; my days were shaped, before one came to be. How precious to me are your designs, O God; how vast the sum of them! Were I to count, they would outnumber the sands; to finish, I would need eternity. If only you would destroy the wicked, O God, and the bloodthirsty would depart from me! Deceitfully they invoke your name; your foes swear faithless oaths. Do I not hate, LORD, those who hate you? Those who rise against you, do I not loathe? With fierce hatred I hate them, enemies I count as my own. Probe me, God, know my heart; try me, know my concerns. See if my way is crooked, then lead me in the ancient paths. (nab)

These days people are talking about the FBI going through the files of priests at chanceries. Great! Have at it! Get that trustworthy counterintel guy who did up personnel for the FBI before being the fall guy… what’s his face… oh yeah… Peter Strzok. So, not so great then. So…

These days people are talking about the laity going through the files. Great! Have at it! Hopefully some kind of competence is involved, like law enforcement investigators. But people don’t like police these days, did you notice? So…

These days people are talking about any and all parishioners going through the files of the priests of their parish. That would be a real hoot. I can hear it now: “Father George chose blue as his favorite color on his million-question psych exam instead of yellow even though he’s got off the charts leadership skill sets (which would have to be yellow[!]). So, Father George has got to be lying. But why?” Meanwhile, I was thinking of Jesus’ good mom, who is depicted with blue because of the meaning of her Jewish name. That might be said to be ideological but it is sincere, and therefore not a lie. And blue is my favorite color anyway.

You want to know about my life? You sure you got the right guy? Have at it. But, I say, and so should we all: Jesus Christ, you are my life! Jesus is the One who is forgotten in all of this. Always forgotten. Jesus is not there in faithlessness. Jesus is not there in investigations. Jesus is not there in any solutions proposed by fallen human beings at all. I insist, and so should we all:

Jesus Christ: You are my life!

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Military, Terrorism, המוסד

Fr Byers, who are you, anyway? Apologia.

[[ This post was originally published December 19, 2017. It’s republished now as baiting for some who need to be baited for their own good. ]]

With the videos above I poke fun at myself. Sorry for some of the language in them. I apologize to those who actually want an answer to the question about my identity, to those who don’t accept the answer that I am a simple back-mountain priest on the outside of the peripheries. That’s all I am. And I’m happy with that. Truly.

The problem is that there are those who are ferociously asking about my real identity even now as if that question has never been asked before, not knowing that I have been one of the most researched people on the planet by whatever wing of Catholicism, or Protestantism, or atheism, or of whatever religion, Judaism, Islam, or whatever political entity overseas, but most especially by our own intelligence services, the latter being interested because of my “Shadow”, and because and all the hyper-sensitive places I’ve been, all the terrorists with whom I have been “friends,” all the terrorist incidents in which I have in one way or another been involved, all the friends I have on the very highest levels in the military, in intelligence services, in the Church. But, hey! You newcomers! Go for it!

The question is, of course, why the interest in me? By all accounts, I am just another boring priest among the million or so priests on the face of the earth. I am just one more boring person among the billions of people who are presently alive. So, why me?

Inside the Church, the ultra-liberal swamp rats think that I am their hero because of some of the rather extraordinary people I know and the type of degrees I have behind my name, thinking that anyone with those qualifications (those people and those institutions) has to be one of the more dangerous-to-the-status-quo people on the face of the earth, and so I am welcomed, until they get to know me, but even then, their suspicions that I am way to the right in their estimation remains merely suspicion, for I simply can’t be of Tradition if I know their darlings and have the degrees I do. They think I am just being very, very clever, more political than they could imagine could be possible. Their question remains: “Who are you, anyway?”

Inside the Church again, the ultra-traditional-ism-ists treat me the same way, suspicious that I am a filthy liberal because of the people I know and the degrees that I have, and yet are confused by the things I have done in my life, doing more for the reinstatement of the Traditional liturgy (more than the Mass, also the sacraments and exorcism, etc), than most all of them put together. They think all that is subterfuge, a cover. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream, condemning me as one of those “priests” who loves “mercy,” but then wondering what is going on because they never see me embrace any heresy, any leftist position, so that they simply hate that I won’t hate who they hate as much as they hate, or even hate at all. They think I am a careerist, but then watch in amazement how I throw away “career” after “career.” I could certainly have had a multitude of careers in the Church, could have long been a bishop, actually archbishop at this stage, the problem being that I just won’t compromise, not to protect my record of not compromising, but because I believe in serving Jesus. But that is what they will not accept. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream again.

I suppose I should give a few examples. Early on I was invited to go to the Academia Ecclesiastica, but I turned that down with the excuse that I just would not make a career of compromising my priesthood. That was very offensive to some career diplomats, believe me. I’m sure many are devout believers. Some are anything but that. I knew quite a bit about those who were beholden more to the State than to Jesus. I have a lot of friends. But I felt I was too weak to last as a believer in such settings. Either I would cave in or be removed as useless to the ways of compromise. So, why bother? That’s just the way it was. That’s a confession about how bad and evil I was. Then there was a now long-deceased ecclesiastical superior who wanted to pull some strings and have me appointed as one of the Inquisitors at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, but I dissuaded him as well. At the time, among some in the CDF, it was all about how to please bishops. I just couldn’t do it, fearful that I wouldn’t be able to remain faithful to Jesus, fearful that I would simply be removed as someone useless to the world of compromise. Mind you, the CDF did do some great things at the time under then Cardinal Ratzinger, especially the ghost-writing of the official interpretation of Canon 915 (upon which I had some incisive influence from afar). Anyway, there was also a push to get me into the Congregation for the Clergy, and the Congregation for Saints, heck, after my time at Vatican Radio, even Communications at their new offices was put before me. The biggest career I turned down, however, was to go to teach at a certain University in Buenos Aires, where I’m quite sure I would have in no time (if not from the very beginning) been put in administrative positions as a jumping board to other things. I turned that down because the whole thing seemed geared to smashing down my faithfulness to Jesus. I was afraid of my weakness, afraid of being removed as someone useless to political correctness of compromise. I have to wonder what would have happened between Father and then Archbishop Jorge Bergoglio and myself, what with our common friends. I have to wonder what would have been the future of the ghost writing of Amoris laetitia, if, instead, I would have written that in a manner manifestly reflecting the teaching of the Church. I am a failure, I suppose, for not having taken up those careers in the Church. I am certainly a failure for having been fearful of anything at the time. I have only since then learned by the grace of God not to fear anything, ever. Why? Because Jesus is the One. He’s the only One.

Anyway, outside the Church, because of my life-time relationship of sorts with my “Shadow” (which has nothing to do with me, by the way), the State Department, Department of Justice, Department of Defense and various and sundry operators of any and all military or intelligence backgrounds have long wondered and frequently asked, always after long investigations and always with frustration, “Who are you, anyway?” This has become, over many decades and with countless examples, both humorous and predictable. Some, if they are good guys, just do what they are told in my regard (because of the “Shadow” thing) or they are afraid to bring it further to Mike Pompeo or [[Tillerson]] Gina Haspel because their own treasonous behaviors would be brought to light, especially now, but that’s another story, that is, as to how I’ve been trying to bring those treasonous behaviors to light. At this point, it seems that my “Shadow” has successfully turned the tables so that it must be me who is the too vaunted Gray Man, in which case the question, “Who are you, anyway?” becomes both a protection and liability. It has, in fact, always been this way. It is what it is. There are benefits. There are drawbacks.

As it is, throughout my life my identity has been a standing “inside joke” for me and Jesus, for He has given me the grace which He willingly gives to all, the grace not to be novel, that is, no novelties, with the point being that only One who is important, the only One who has anything to say, is Jesus. He’s the One. He’s the only One. We are to our utmost to be instruments of His, letting His love and truth and goodness and truth and kindness and truth and mercy and truth be manifested through us. We are to have nothing of our own, no identity apart from Him. It’s all about Him. He is ever ancient, ever new. I am far from it, but it would be my hope to say that if there is anything that is ecclesial and of God in my life, that people will say: “Look at that. That’s not Fr George. That’s Jesus. Thank God for his great mercy.”

At the rare time that circumstances are such that it is important not to be novel, not to compromise, not to betray Jesus as regards Church or State, I have not compromised, ever. This is in itself so very novel, you know, not to embrace the novelty of being a “man of consensus”, not to embrace being a coward, that I have also been condemned as someone who promotes “admiratio” for this very reason. Ironic how that works. The very attempt to respect faith and morals, the attempt not to be Promethean, not to be neo-Pelagian, not to be self-absorbed, or self-referential, not to be corrupt, is the very thing which makes people condemn me as being all those things, for, they say, only someone full of himself, arrogant and Pharisaical, would want to be different from them, and instead want to be in solidarity with some sort of Sign of Contradiction. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream, wanting to know how it is that I could possibly not cave into their bullying ways. I could give a thousand examples regarding faith or morals or national security. But why bother? I have learned that people are not interested in arguments. They are only interested in pushing and pushing and pushing to see if, for real, there is faithfulness. In all their cynicism, they want to know if faithfulness is possible in this world. In the end, it’s all about being smashed down and, even while being smashed down, saying with Jesus’ love and truth and goodness and kindness and mercy: “I forgive you. I want to see you in heaven.” And in that way, there is no compromise, no novelty, nothing of me, only Jesus. I’m sure I’m not there yet. I am totally weak. But He gives me the grace to want to be nothing, that is, for Jesus, that is, to have no identity apart from Him, so that He can use me for what He wants, that is, His love, His truth, His goodness, His kindness, His mercy.

The “inside joke” is all about what happens. Here’s the deal: when you don’t compromise, you will get smashed down, hard. There are damned if you do, damned if you don’t situations, but you don’t compromise. There are horrific circumstances, but you don’t compromise. All is hopeless, completely hopeless, but you don’t compromise. And then you are smacked down, hard. O.K. But then, in remaining faithful in all things, Jesus picks you up. He makes life so very, very interesting in this way. How boring non-faithfulness must be. In contrast, the vistas of faith upon panoramas of hard reality are exhilarating. No amount of darkness can quench the bond of love with God that God Himself puts into our hearts. And this is one thing that is novel. This is something new. It is God’s love among us, Emmanuel. But Jesus brings that newness, not us. We can only receive that newness when we have nothing new of our own, nothing novel, no identity of our own.

Who am I, anyway? I hope for a love which casts out all fear. I hope one day to say that I am nobody, nothing, that Jesus is my All. I hope to say that Jesus is the One, that He’s the only One, that I find my identity in Him, that He finds me and brings me into the reality of love and truth.

P.S. At the moment, someone is condemning me as someone who is enjoying the all too easy life of a pastor on the peripheries. If only they knew! Well, I must say that I love being a priest, a pastor, and on the peripheries. I love being a priest. I love watching Jesus, the Priest, at work. I love everything about any possible way and manner of being a priest. It is true that an intellectual / academic “career” would be tough, as the Common Doctor says when commenting on the brightness of a halo in the Summa, as there is a 1000 times more anguish for the flock in such circumstances. In this regard I would absolutely love being the or one of the Papal Theologians (though I’m not a Dominican). My goodness, the things I could write on Genesis, on ecumenical cooperation with biblical manuscripts (going to the heart of ecumenism), on the women of the Gospels, on papal infallibility, on reaching out to the Orthodox, on being a missionary, on mercy, on the formation of seminarians… But, I am here, and I am also happy where I am, in the tiniest parish in North America, in the most remote place possible. I love it. That’s who I am, one who is in love with everything about The Priest, Jesus.

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100% criminal fraud risk, yours truly the unwitting kiddie-porn star, my blog, FBI: hunting the animals

“185.220.101.193 – Fraud Score: 100%”

“IP address 185.220.101.193 is a very high fraud risk. This IP address is owned by Markus Koch who are themselves a high risk ISP. Scamalytics see medium levels of traffic from this IP address across our global network, almost all of which is fraudulent. We apply a risk score of 100/100 to 185.220.101.193, meaning that of the web traffic where we have visibility, 100% is suspected to be fraudulent. If you see web traffic from this IP address there is potentially a very high risk that it is criminals engaged in fraudulent activity. Other types of traffic may pose a different risk or no risk. 185.220.101.193 is operating a TOR exit node, which is likely to be proxying traffic from another geographical location. The geographical location of 185.220.101.193 is in the Netherlands, however the geographical location of the user could be anywhere in the world.”

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Unlike the 100% crowd above, some TOR networks with such IPs are of little risk, maybe 1%, maybe 33%, maybe 50%, maybe 85% of activity being criminally fraudulent. The above crowd is 100%. Wow.

I assume that these guys have total control of my blog, though they may only be using my site to host conversations in the background, having fun. It could just be some nefarious people already known to me doing a bit of gaslighting. Whatever. I’ve already see the Son of the Living God on the Cross. I’ve already looked Satan in the face in my short life. Nothing can gaslight me. I’ve been far beyond the idiocy of the best of gaslighters to witness extreme lack of wisdom. Now, I haven’t looked, but I don’t think anyone has messed with any content of this blog as of this writing. Well, there was a dialogue box that popped up on my desktop asking me to enter my Windows Password, which is the Password for the entire physical computer. Hmmm…. No. Just because. Too impolite, lacking in courtesy.

Of the dozens of TOR networks hacking away, one in particular is the expert at hacking raw formatted hard drives and flash drives to recover previous content. Interesting, you know, all those great pictures of Flowers for the Immaculate Conception! Of course, they could just ask me, instead of playing the role of breathless fools.

I already have enough of those in my life who are using a loved one as a proxy to harass, knowing that their mafia-esque extortion to “go along with the plan”, as they’ve said, rife with offers of bribes as well, might just work in that such a family member is otherwise helpless against their machinations. They might go so far in these next days to have that elderly and helpless loved thrown on to the street in the middle of nowhere in the middle of what is already winter where this person is. The cruelty is extreme. If these hackers are working for this cruel people, they might want to repent and do something better with their lives.

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Hackers are of course, on the take, either themselves, or they sell the information they acquire. They could use their talents for good by presenting themselves, say, to the NSA. Why not? And don’t give me this:

Good ol’ Will.

I have a project for the hackers. Sorry, I can’t pay you. But maybe you can redeem yourselves by bringing something to the FBI for me. Don’t send me anything. NO! And I suggest you only do this by first announcing yourselves to the FBI, working with them.

Here’s the deal: When I was a kid, born in 1960, and before, during, after I was a student at North Junior High School in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, USA, so, say, late 1960s into the mid-1970s, all the swimming classes were done with forced nudity with movie cameras everywhere around the pool, up in the bleachers, in the shower room, in the locker room. I’m guessing this is one of the largest troves of kiddy-porn ever made in modern history. I’m guessing millions of stills, millions of film-shorts are still circulating on whatever it is that is called the dark-web. While images were acquired decades ago, any archiving, any distribution by anyone anywhere is a felony. I’d like all these animals to go to prison. Can you do that? Thanks in advance.

Me as a kid:

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TORs & Proxies. Fraud & Hackers. Why?

According to Scamalytics (I don’t know if that’s legit or self-congratulatory), there, is, of a sudden, the most vaunted fraudsters and hackers around the world visiting ariseletusbegoing. Why? These guys have been subject to the courts and investigations by all sorts of agencies.

They are the best at extracting hard drives, flash drives, at following everything done on a computer, a phone, whatever device.

Most appear next to The Hague or over in Hesse. Whatever.

What are they interested in me. Maybe because I’m such a nobody. Maybe because they think they can find secret messages in “Flowers for the Immaculate Conception” – and indeed the Sacred Mysteries are often the subject of those posts and many others.

I don’t get it.

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Census Bureau mocks my religion, threatens $5,000 fine 5 years prison or both

I knew it was dead serious trouble when the façade-of-niceness lady came to this particular church in the backsides of back ridges of Appalachia on behalf of the Atlanta, GA Census Bureau Regional Field Office, that is, on behalf of the Census Bureau quarters in Suitland, MD, that is, under powers of the Secretary for the US Census Bureau in Washington, DC.

Her first trusted Census Community partner in the region was yours truly. She wanted desperately to get her hands on info regarding our Latino community, it being that most of them are Catholic and, you know, I’m their priest.

The obvious question back to her without answering her Latino community questions was this: So, how much do you know about Gaming Theory? She was instantaneously livid with anger, controlled, but shaking, explaining, while gritting her teeth, that she had taken doctoral degrees in this area of statistical hell and from the Jesuits no less. Taking the opportunity of her off-kilter emotions, having caught her off guard, another question was put to her face about whether or not she had worked for the US ARMY’s DARPA *COMPASS* program, (a side note on war-games involving also individual citizens HERE). What with all the stats and spreadsheets in her business of the Census, the COMPASS program would have been a great C.V. line-item to fly up the ladder. Yes, she admitted: plenty of work for DARPA COMPASS.

:-) I’m so bad and evil.

The Yin Yang philosophy behind COMPASS also specifically uses religion not just as an indicator but also as an identifier, as we will read below.

Here’s a summary of COMPASS:

  • An emergent type of geopolitical warfare in recent years has been coined “gray zone competition,” or simply “competition,” because it sits in a nebulous area between peace and conventional conflict. It’s not openly declared or defined, it’s slower and is prosecuted more subtly using social, psychological, religious, information, cyber and other means to achieve physical or cognitive objectives with or without violence. The lack of clarity of intent in competition activity makes it challenging to detect, characterize, and counter an enemy fighting this way.
  • “The Collection and Monitoring via Planning for Active Situational Scenarios (COMPASS) program aims to better understand and respond to an adversary’s competition. COMPASS seeks to leverage advanced AI and other technologies to help commanders make more effective decisions to thwart an enemy’s complex, multi-layered competition activity. The ultimate goal of the program is to provide theater-level operations and planning staffs with robust analytics and decision-support tools that reduce ambiguity of adversarial actors and their objectives.”

More concisely:

  • Targets, including individual citizens of these USA, are subjected to baiting and gaslighting, even using violence, so as to fill out the AI algorithms needed for a more accurate usage of COMPASS, with sources being social, psychological, religious, information, cyber. The point is to allow field officers to effect an extra-judicial killing on you, you know, with a clean conscience, because AI told them to do it. That’s easy. It’s the new version of the devil made me do it.

As I proceeded to grill the nice Census Bureau lady about abusing the census for gerrymandering and perverting elections, she retreated into ambiguous obfuscation: there are talking points we were given on that. And that’s all she said about it. Pfft. You know, just my opinion, but the mid-level guys ought to send out better trained people than her. To wit: the very day Trump signed an executive order forbidding the Census Bureau from using data for gerrymandering, she resigned, as she told me in an email. I wrote about that, and, instantaneously, I got a blog visit from the U.S. Census Bureau in Suitland to an obscure, long-archived humorous post on this blog about “little white lies” starring Lillian Carter and Jesus. The first time she had visited my blog through the Suitland servers she bragged within hours that she had visited my blog, laughing with glee. As it is, that unnuanced statement of resignation may mean that she is now moving up the ladder, as expected.

Her pet project, DARPA *COMPASS* has me on the list as a targeted individual, as I was informed by the new FBI compound just North-East of Atlanta, but not for nefarious purposes, just informational, I hope[!], inasmuch as Diplomatic Security just up from the Rosslyn, VA metro stop established a kind of Doppelgänger of mine with secured identity for work with CCS (Counterintelligence for Consular Services) at Main State (the main campus of the Department of State at Foggy Bottom), blah blah blah. I’ve written on all this before, too many times. I can’t get out of it. It’s a “perpetual” program, even “interdepartmental”. I’m really fed up with it. My protestations are detrimental to whatever it is that the Doppelgänger is up to, and that’s dangerous for me. He started out with arms transfers to the Sinaloa Cartel, that is, in its very beginnings, waaaay back in the day.

  • “The Bureau of Diplomatic Security, more commonly known as Diplomatic Security, or DS, is the security and law enforcement arm of the United States Department of State. DS is a world leader in international investigations, threat analysis, cyber security, counterterrorism, security technology, and protection of people, property, and information.”

Anyway, I had asked her if she would help me get out the “program”, seeing that she’s interested in actual numbers of people, what with the census, and there happening to be two of me, born of the same parents, at the same second, in the same hospital, with the same name, same social security number, same everything. On behalf of CCS at Main State, Diplomatic Security brags about this to me, and brags repeatedly: they are so very good at establishing alternative secured identities to people who then become that provided identity, and they NEVER make a mistake, not ever. The upper echelon census lady said with a rather severe voice that there was zero chance of her helping me with this, adding: “I will not help you.” Ironic, methinks.

Indeed, the stakes have been jacked up. I’m now faced with a damned if I do and damned if I don’t situation:

  • If I answer the unrepeatable particular life-history details of the American Community Survey (another program you absolutely cannot get out of, and penalties are established by the U.S. Congress) I will be told that I’m a liar, because the Doppelgänger surely has different answers. If I’m hit with lying, it’s up to a US$5,000.00 fine and/or up to five years in prison, or both.
  • If I just ignore the survey for a couple of months, harassment by the Census Bureau is guaranteed: constant phone calls, banging on the door, clogging my mail box, harassment which is all legal for them. If I continue to ignore them, it’s up to a US$5,000.00 fine and/or five years in prison, or both. And this will be repeated as time goes on.

Of course, people say that it’s extremely rare that such contempt for a congressionally mandated harassment about unrepeatable personal life history that has nothing to do with the local population is ever prosecuted, that they just want to scare you into compliance. That’s true, because they save a ton of money avoiding litigation. But sometimes they do prosecute, you know, if they are malicious. On that note…

I have to say that I did respond to the much more mundane questions of the actual census of the population, with alacrity, on time, and politely, even though I was told by the nice lady that even those basic answers would be falsified on purpose so that the rest of the answers couldn’t be referred back to me. Of course, they get to choose, for the sake of gerrymandering, which answers they want to manipulate, like about, say, race. But my good faith effort was very sarcastically, mockingly called into question by the Atlanta Census Bureau field office. How’s that?

I started getting many harassment phone calls from three guys, and, when I could, I finally picked up the phone over bluetooth in Sassy the Subaru. The Census Bureau guy asked with a sing-song “gotcha question” voice filled with sarcasm and triumphant mockery: “This is a Catholic ♬ rectory ♬ isn’t it?” “Yes,” I said. “Well, then,” he continued in his sarcastic voice, “it being that this is a ♬ Catholic rectory ♬ there must be all sorts of women and children who live there, right? I mean, after all, it’s a ♬ Catholic rectory ♬. There has to lots of women and children that you’re keeping there, right?”

Keeping there…” That’s like pronouncing that it’s an established fact that all Catholic priests, because they are Catholic priests, are imprisoning women and children in dungeons or doing up human trafficking or pimping them out or are trying to counter, say, immigration laws. Um… No.

It’s against the law for the Census Bureau to outright mock religion and with such baiting, mocking sarcasm. I should have these nice people thrown into prison for a much longer time than just five years. This is a religious hate crime wrought purposely by the Federal Government, deep as it might be at the moment. I told the guy that if any insists on that kind of stupidity I WILL SUE THEM INTO THE GROUND. So, I guess that ends this conversation, he said, and hung up. Nice guy. Coward too. The deeper you go…

A typical gas light

Oh, my bad. I forgot. They don’t give a damn about my Catholic priesthood. At one point – early 1996 – this time at the FBI Rome, Italy field office), they established me (without my asking) with an alternative identity. I rejected it, having seen what they did after having already entered back into Italy. They were really upset, for years, with yours truly. They tried over years to convince me, a citizen in good standing, with argumentation, then humiliation, to disappear without a trace with that alternative identity (and they would have made sure of the without a trace part), so as to make it easier for my Doppelgänger at this point in time, decades later, to continue his, um, work, under my identity. Father George David Byers would cease to exist. I would immediately have turned into no-history-man, which is something that gets you into unending trouble and then dead in no time. For these guys and gals, U.S. citizens in good standing don’t count. Just the Feds. The mantra of the Census Bureau is that each person counts. But not this citizen in good standing. I don’t count. Ironic, right, for the Census Bureau? But we knew that already.

This is a gas light acquired by yours truly a few years ago. Now even I can practice gaslighting!

The niceness lady of Suitland (in)fame reads this blog closely, so, she’ll get the message: I won’t comply. Send your thugs and buffoons. I won’t comply. Steal my money and throw me in prison. Fine! I’ll comply with you stealing my money and you throwing me into prison. But I won’t comply with your detailed personal history questionnaire. How can I? Do you know if I’m me, that I’m not my Doppelgänger? Really? How’s that? You’ll get yourself into trouble with a certain Secretary and a certain Director if you say you do. When “perpetual programs” that are “interdepartmental” come into play, we’re talking un-maskable, unless, like, you’re not only best friends with the Secretary and the Director, but you have directives coming from above the Secretary and above the Director. ;-)

But hey! I know! I’ve had a couple of requests about “the program” for years now. No one knows what they are. Just some little tweaks. Diplomatic Security asked what these were somewhat recently, but my response had to be that I can’t make those known over an unsecured telephone connection (on my end). So, hey! I’ll answer all the questions you got, but this time it’s gotta be quid-pro-quo. I have some simple requests. After all, you guys stole my identity. Now you owe me.

It’s all too easy.

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About your trauma recovery dear Father Byers… ;-)

A couple of articles have been published in recent years about terrorist suicide bomber Saeed Hotari.

There was nothing traumatic in all that. I was never much traumatized by my being shot at I don’t know how many times over decades and the ten thousand other “incidents” any one of which might throw someone into a trauma-recovery program, say, in North East Virginia, say, at Wolf Trap or at Liberty Crossing Campus. As I’ve often said however, bullets buzzing by one’s ears are certainly memorable.

In that more recent article linked above I mentioned that I carry. It’s a Glock 19, chambered. I like the Serpa Blackhawk OWB, for convenience, my stupid record (as I’ll never repeat that again) is 1.01 seconds for 2 to the “body” (spine) 1 to the head (brain-box) 25 feet out from the holster. Being in a state of prompt readiness to protect the innocent from unjust aggression is a virtue related to justice. Just to say it, mercy is a potential part of the virtue of justice, as Saint Thomas Aquinas points out in his commentary on the Sentences. Providing justice is a mercy. Yes.

I received a very clever comment on that more recent article. At first glance I thought this was a denunciation of carrying a Glock. But it’s not that at all. I didn’t let it out of moderation there as I wanted to give it a bit more visibility. I include my interlinear [comments]:

  • “We cannot rely on our own ability to fight evil [she’s referring to Peter slicing off the ear of Malchus when Jesus is being betrayed, as we’ll see momentarily] but must depend on God. [I agree.] How often we forget our survival is totally dependent on God. [Hey! I forget all the time, you know, not having the beatific vision and all that. Yep. I agree. I want to go to heaven!] Eventually we all learn [well, some of us] that the unstable world [crux stat dum volitur orbis: let’s just call it a fallen world and figure this out] cannot be the source of our security, of true peace of heart. [“My strength shines out through your weakness” – Jesus to Paul] I’m interested in how you square your essay with Luke 22:51. [I’m paraphrasing because of bad translations, but Lk 22:51 is this: Jesus said: “All of you let me do this!” And He touched the ear of (Malchus) and healed him.] Your words make it sound like you live your trauma recovery [with me being Malchus and all… (adn with trauma recovery being a very technical term betraying much background in the same] in a state of protection with a clenched fist. [That is, not trusting in God and full of fear, whereby Malchus steals Peter’s sword and I forge it into a Glock. Very clever, that. And lots of work to be able to spit that out just like that. There’s no way out except like this:] Meanwhile another hand, not yours or mine, reaches out in the Eucharist. [See top picture on the Eucharist. And I agree with that, to a point.]

Malchus was an enemy, a servant of the High Priest, literally dead set against Jesus. Malchus learned from the mercy shown him to be sure. It being that I’m the Missionary of Mercy of the High Priest, Pope Francis, maybe I too should learn something of mercy. But is carrying a tool to protect the innocent from unjust aggression a lack of mercy making me the enemy of Jesus?

Jesus was a special case. His reprimand not only to Peter but to all the Apostles (it’s a plural imperative) was not about the inappropriateness of what Peter was doing so much as it gave Jesus a moment to show mercy to the end. This was precisely like His reprimand to John the Baptist: Let it be so for now for the fulfillment of righteousness! When Jesus was baptized He was asking our Heavenly Father to treat Him as if were guilty of sin, not just like the charioteers and soldiers of Pharaoh who were drowned for their sin of enslaving the chosen people, but He was asking to be treated like He was guilty for having enslaved all in sin, all peoples of all times, from Adam until the last man is conceived. Jesus lays down His life, taking on the punishment we deserve for original sin and all our own rubbish, so that He has the right in His own justice to have mercy on us. The Apostles see this mercy with Malchus and off they go.

Is it wrong to protect oneself and others while trusting in God while doing this mercy? No. In fact, it’s a contribution to the virtue of justice.

Two points and excuse my theological language:

First of all, I don’t want any trauma recovery, particularly not anything from Northeast Virginia. Why not? Because I’m not traumatized enough, not yet. As some priest friends from Colombia told me, “We’ve done nothing; we’ve not lain down our lives for the brethren.” Get me away from all that is trauma recovery. If anything, my therapy will be to put my fingers into Jesus’ wounds in His hands and my hand right into the wound in His side, into His heart.

My saying, “My Lord and my God” will be my entire trauma recovery, good enough to take my right through torture and death. I deserve everything I get along the way of the effects of original sin and my own, including being available to the malevolence of others (there ain’t no Glock that’s gonna stop that). And because Jesus laid down His life for me and called me to be His priest, He deserves that I un-clench my fists so as to Consecrate His Body and Blood at Holy Mass, so as to provide Absolution of sin, so as to Baptize, so as to Confirm… Yes. But I still carry. In calmness. Tranquility. You know the drill: “Carry! And carry on!”

It is no trauma to follow up on Jesus’ invitation: “As the Master, so the disciple.” Why not? Because His strength shines out through our weakness. His love carries us in the peace and joy of the Holy Spirit.

Let me give an example. This very morning, while that lady wrote her comment, I myself at the same time was being stripped of my carry and locked in jail. I’m out now, obviously. But you have to know that I feel most at home among sinners like Malchus because I’m so like him. I make lots of friends in jail. I have a Bible study with the guys every week. I love it. What a joy. And I gotta say, lots of the guys are much better prepared in the Scriptures than were my seminarians anywhere around the world. Truly. I love it. We help each other out to get to know the Lord. Believe me, no protection or clenched fists inside the stone walls. No, no. It’s all about Jesus. It’s all about putting that ear back on Malchus. And about letting that ear get put back on me by those, you know, “sinners” and all that.

But, hey! Not to worry my interlocutor comment friend. Maybe you can help me with a bit of trauma recovery after all. There are some adjustments to the “recovery program” that I’m on – if you want to call it that – (DS or DipSec might have another name for all that), adjustments which I would like to be implemented, but I won’t write about that or say it over the phone. I need an in-person interview with someone, say, I don’t know, just up from the Rosslyn metro stop, maybe at the Campus… Can you swing that, maybe with CCS oversight? That would be really, really cool. Seriously, if you want to help me, that would go a long way.

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Filed under Guns, Intelligence Community, Interreligious dialogue, Law enforcement, Military, Missionaries of Mercy, Pope Francis, Priesthood, Prison, Terrorism, Vocations

Cicada! Cikada! CISA beware! Eschatological hopes of heaven to dare!

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It’s enough to spook even the most seasoned of agents of the new CISA (Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency), part of the Department of Homeland Security and headquarted in my favorite small town of Rosslyn, VA. ;-) A good friend is one of the few and the brave who work for CISA. The reason for any nervous spookiness is that these insects sound like transformers in the nanoseconds prior to blowing up, the last thing CISA would want regarding essential online military and intelligence stability:

To do anything about them you have to wear hearing protection. The cicada pictured up top and twice more below did his transformation thing on one of the old fence posts along my driveway.

The transformation thing means that he may well now be fully 17 years old. If he’s in sync with his fellow cicadas, there may be others – by the millions – hatching out right about now. The sound they make is literally deafening. Let the concert begin! That’s what I say. This is one of the coolest wonders of nature, of our good God’s creation. What a great imagination God has! Um… Can one even say that?

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Look, I’m sure we will all look much worse than that if we were buried six feet under for 17 years! That he comes out in bright green (green is for hope) ready to play an orchestral performance is – sorry if the analogy limps – is like the resurrection from the dead…

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Well. Fine. Some may find that the analogy isn’t just limping, but is rather crippled.

I bet such unimaginationed people find everything about cicadas to be annoying.

As for me, I find cicada concerts to be soothing. And I like how they look fierce with the big green hammer-head shark eyes.

I wonder what I will look like at the resurrection unto life before the general judgment wrought by Jesus, Son of God and Son of Man, who will absolutely come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire. Oh! I remember:

  • “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.” (1 John 3:2)

By the way, I don’t at all mean to be presumptuous in hoping to make it through the general judgement so as to be on my to heaven so as to be part of the Holy Family. Hope is an infused virtue that comes with sanctifying grace (which I hope to enjoy!). We have to have hope. Confession helps with that, right? It makes for a transformation, right?

If we didn’t have hope, we would only look forward to looking like the empty shell of a bug a couple of pictures above, but not just for 17 years, for all eternity.

As I always say really very frequently: “I wanna go to heaven!”

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Bait so as to receive: how very Kryptos. Plot twist. Jesus reveals our identity.

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The picture above, taken at a parishioner’s house, is of Alex Trebek decades ago. Yes, there are re-runs of game shows from a lifetime ago. I just thought this particular scene was humorous and so took a picture of it. Sorry for using poor “Shadow” the other day as bait so as to watch the the knuckleheads show themselves. And they did. It is to laugh, out loud too.

Sorry if this is all a bit Kryptic. Some are bewildered at such Kryptesque posts that mention my “Shadow,” the guy who has been “established with secured identity” by those in DS-Rosslyn, with my own identity. The analogy for the continuing bewilderment that comes to mind is the befuddlement over seemingly entirely outrageous statements of POTUS Trump that he makes correctly but without revealing important circumstances. Like clockwork, over the space of a week or two, this exercise in baiting has the knuckleheads go full apoplectic and show themselves for who they are, and then after they make fools of themselves, good old Trump reveals the rest of the story as Paul Harvey would say. Checkmate. They know they’ve been had. In my own little world the rest of the story may or may not be revealed in this lifetime. I’m working on it, and I’m having fun while doing it, laughing all the way, even if the subject matter involves otherwise stunningly illegal arms transfers and rather shadowy characters and endless violence and loss of life. My “Shadow” might well be revealed even while exaggeratedly attempting to remain hidden, an unexpected plot twist. I digress.

This kind of entertainment – and it is just that, for me, entertainment – takes up about 0.00001% of my free time. I write about it because it’s all so stupid. It just is what it is. And I cannot, cannot, cannot write about what happens the other 99.99999% of my free time, not to mention what happens in my full-on priestly activities in confession, in spiritual direction, all that for which I actually live. Don’t get the wrong idea.

You have to know, I absolutely love being a priest, all of the priestly everything about visiting the sick, providing Last Rites, doing up funerals, and preaching!

Oh my! I love preaching. I learn about the Sacred Scriptures pretty much only while I’m preaching, that is, not so much any preparation, if any, but in the actual preaching. I’ve often spoken of this with my confessor. He has the same experience in being brought into a crushing-uplifting reverence before the Living Truth of Jesus by the Holy Spirit while preaching. I guess that’s how the Lord tells us that we’ve said enough and need to move things along, because… after that… we can get choked up, and simply not be able to say anything more. Preaching from the heart? This is more like putting one’s useless heart aside, because, look… look at that Sacred Heart of Jesus… In trying to reveal what is otherwise hidden in the Mystery of God’s love for us – plot twist – our own inadequacy otherwise hidden also to ourselves is – plot twist – revealed before the Light that comes into such darkness. Such Light! I love it, but…

This kind of thing is almost annoying. Take for instance the Consecrations at Holy Mass. I can usually get through the first, but by the second I have to battle with all my might from getting choked up in the presence of the Most Sacred Mysteries – the ultimate Kryptos – of our Lord’s ever so hidden love for us. I am a weak and useless and simple man. So, there we have it, a plot twist. Who we are, our identity, is revealed not when we claim an identity, but when we stand ever so simply before our Creator. We are revealed for who we are. Jesus strips us of our fear in which we stupidly try to hide ourselves. Fear is not an identity. Being forgiven reveals who we are before our Redeemer because He forgives by pouring into us the created presence of the Most Holy Trinity otherwise called sanctifying grace. How to say it?

“Hidden.” That’s “Kryptic.” Watch what happens the other way. The dear Lord, by way of His goodness and kindness and the Living Truth that He is, lays open our souls before His majesty. We know who we are when like the Apostle Thomas , we place our finger into the marks of the nails, and our hand into the gaping wound in His side that was made on Calvary by the sword of the Roman soldier.

Plot twist? Oh yes. And the games human beings play in this world which congratulates itself on being clever and shadowy? It is to laugh, but also to cry, for there is altogether too much game playing and violence and not enough of being drawn into the Living Sacred Mysteries of God’s Love and Truth, of Jesus, who will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire.

And if you feel lost in all this seeming convolutedness, like it’s all still too Kryptic, let some piercing eyes cut right into your very soul revealing how you stand before God, for her soul was pierced through that the thoughts of many hearts might be revealed (see Luke 2:35).

pieta

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Cruising with DoD Intel and a great law enforcement encounter at midnight

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Every seagoing vessel needs proper rope discipline.

Every seagoing vessel needs proper maintenance of sailors. For me, La Croix:

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Off we go into the magnificent reservoirs in the back mountains here:

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This was truly a gift to be away from the drug-violence of town. Thanks to our retired officers for this super pleasant outing. I had a great talk with the wife of the Navy guy. Interesting that her first question was pretty much verbatim what the “CIA” guy was asking to all my parishioners a couple of years back. ;-) All good.

We had refreshing showers of rain drops from a cloud a good half-mile or more away:

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Very nice. Irish weather, I call it.

Let’s test your situational awareness in this next picture. Can you find what’s out of place? Try! (Hint: It has something do do with the power lines.)

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So, here’s a bit closer:

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That’s an Osprey nest. You know, of Ospreys:

OSPREY

I love it.

Afterward, we had a very pleasant meal with their neighbors, also lifetime Military Intel. This has now become a yearly event together. I think I’m the luckiest priest in these USA. Having said that a number of times on this outing, I immediately made the caveat that should my guardian angel hear that, I might be in trouble. I might just be having TOO much fun. So I begged him to be easy with me, because I’m so very stupid and know nothing of the providence of the Lord Jesus…

As soon as I got back on the road to come back across the mountains, I was greeted by a good dozen law enforcement officers, blue lights filling the midnight forests. Cruisers were all over the sides of the road and they were standing right across the road with flashlights. Not very safe that. Not in these times. Anywhere else they would simply have been run over.

  • My windows rolled down, hands on the steering wheel, I said: Good evening, gentlemen. Hope everything’s alright. I gotta say that I’m carrying appendix.
  • You got a permit for that?
  • Yes sir. (I show it to him).
  • Driver license?
  • Yes sir. (I show it to him). Anything dangerous in the county tonight?
  • No, no. We’re just checking.
  • Thanks to all you for keeping up with law enforcement for us. We’re living in some really weird times. All respect for you guys, thank you.
  • A whole chorus of officers responded together: Thank you for that. Thank you.
  • Me: You guys be safe out here.
  • Them: You have a good night now.

THAT’s how to do up a law enforcement stop. Don’t be the sovereign citizen. Don’t keep your windows rolled up. Just comply. Answer simple questions like about the permit and driver licence. These were totally cool officers. It’s not a police state. We should be thankful that we have any law enforcement whatsoever. It’s a thankless job. But we all depend on law enforcement. So…

Thanks to our Military. Thanks to our Law Enforcement.

P.S. And, yes, there were plenty of questions from all about religious everything. :-)

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Military

Cheetahs of the Homeland full throttle

Now extremely rare in the homeland of Israel, the Cheetah is this very day, this very hour, flourishing in Iran, fast as they can go. Just in time. Fancy that.

Cheetahs of the Homeland. Catchy name. I like it. It even reminds me of Homeland…

😎

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Profiling TRIAD killer before the fact: DARPA COMPASS indicators predictors

Excuse the language of that video. The point of it is that those who are not at the top in “power” and profession might just be the best in profiling. “Maya”, in the scene above, is correct about the whereabouts of Usama bin Laden. But she’s just a “mere” analyst. Her indicators were taken as predictors and it all turned out. This time. But…

There’s really a lot of arson going on here in Andrews, NC. I don’t know if this is a single person, unrelated persons with unrelated incidents, or a group of people together. I don’t know him/her/them personally, so the profile of a TRIAD psychopath killer outlined below may or may not be applicable to him/her/them. But the profile is worth noting for future reference regardless, just as an awareness thing, but we’ll nuance that.

Before going through this, note that these are only indicators, NOT predictors, and that there are two parts to the present post: (A) Using indicators as predictors (this will heavily provide on side of the argument); (B) Recognizing indicators post-hoc but the impossibility of using indicators as predictors before the fact (this will heavily provide the other side of the argument). The latter (B) has everything to do with making a critique of DARPA COMPASS, which does precisely that, using indicators as predictors. But let’s start at the beginning so as to be able to establish some reference points.

(A) Using TRIAD indicators as predictors for serial killers

The very many arson events have been, as you can imagine, the talk of this tiny town. People bring it up wherever I go. For instance, during my rounds to the home-bound and nursing homes just yesterday, a good friend who has much wherewithal in the medical / psychiatric / law enforcement fields wanted to explain to me at length – motu proprio – the profile of a killer, the TRIAD, as she called it. She’s knows I’m now with the Andrews Police Department as a Chaplain. Perhaps she wanted me to pass this info along. She went on at length about the three things which, when they go together, point to a psychopath, a future killer, she says: 100%. Again, I’ll dispute that just a bit further below.

  • I immediately asked: “All cases? One hundred percent?”
  • “Yes. All cases,” she replied with emphasis, “One hundred percent. Those three things together: bed-wetting, torture of animals, arson.”

(1) Bed-wetting

Millions of kids, mostly boys, mostly as toddlers, wet the bed. This is ubiquitous and means absolutely nothing on its own. It’s when the bed wetting continues into early teens that… no… it still means nothing as far as profiling, but at this later age when it goes with a couple of other things, then there’s a concern. There’s shame that goes along with this. If parents are supportive, she says, that lessens any psychological scars, if any. But if the parents freak out, this can make things worse, leading to night terrors, and there can be some negative and even lasting scars. Be supportive of your kids.

(2) Torturing animals, real torture

I don’t understand this. It happens. I mean look at this picture of Laudie-dog below. How could anyone torture her or any animal? My friend says that for the psychopath in the making, this is all about abstraction from the personal, so that the “other” is no longer “other”, but rather a mere object that is under one’s power. Animals are experiments, she says, in how to go about depersonalizing sentient beings, not only animals, but human beings.

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It’s practice for stepping up the game, she said. Stepping things up refers to transferring from animals to human beings. And, in fact, we find out that the stats on people who mistreat animals are doing this to human beings, pretty much 100%, not quite 100% because it might still be in process for some, and that process might take some decades. My comment below is that this is confusing indicators with predictors. But let’s continue…

My friend said that the torture of animals is a way to take out on a scapegoat the “guilt” for the bed wetting. So, in this narrative, there’s a progression. I would add that if that torture is done in front of another person, such as kicking a dog through drywall, terrorizing that other person as much as the dog (note the proportion), with the kicking done so as to accomplish the terror in the other, we’re moving quickly to the next step of the TRIAD.

(3) Arson

Here we move to the destruction of that which involves human beings very directly, regardless of whether the house is presently occupied or not, regardless of any “cover” for motivation such as whether or not such dwellings were insured or not. “Cover.” Get it? If uninsured, it hurts human beings more. If just one or two are insured, that make just be deeper “cover” yet. Psychopaths are usually of way-above average intelligence. Note that with arson:

  • There’s always a risk that squatters are inside.
  • It creates a risk of life and limb to firefighters: authority figures…
  • It creates a risk of life and limb to law enforcement: authority figures…
  • It hurts people economically, even to bankruptcy.
  • It terrorizes people.

Have you noted the progression? But be careful to draw conclusions, as we will see. That might just be an opinion of a narrative of someone trying to make sense of things…

Therefore, is it hopeless for such a person to come around?

My friend speaks from her own experience with profiles of people she has worked with herself, and from her own studies. Don’t ask me how accurate that all is. I don’t know. I don’t have too much experience in that area.

As a priest, I have to ask as to whether I am naive to hold out hope for people who are caught up in this cycle. I don’t know enough about psychopaths to know if they are reachable. As a priest, I would never say someone is hopeless. I can’t do that. I can’t. But, if someone has some advice on all that, let me know. If you don’t want your comment published, just say so, and I’ll totally respect that.

(4) The TRIAD psychopath is bound to become a killer: TRIAD or QUADRAD? 

I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t want to give an excuse of “prophesying” like this to a TRIAD psychopath. However, my friend says that if a no-longer-a-child-bed-wetter who tortures animals also destroys things with fire, so that the “TRIAD” is present, you can bet that such a person, a psychopath, super-intelligent, has already been fantasizing murdering a human being, sometimes for decades. So, I’m guessing that when trying to reach such a person, to bring them out of such a cycle, they are looking at you as a mere object, someone who is not hearing you at all, but rather looking at you with the thought that they can torture and kill you just like they did with animals. There’s a wall.

I think of someone who has slashed his girl friend, torturing her, and who poured fuel down her throat, and then lit her on fire. But this is emotional sensationalism. My friend says the TRIAD is a 100% predictor. I don’t know. I think we’re more complicated than that. For instance:

She also said that if you are caught defenseless against such a person, you do have one hope of surviving, that is, she said, if you can somehow get them to use your name, as that personalizes things. That goes against the grain of objectifying someone. It might well at least buy you time. Re-personalizing is perhaps the key to bringing someone out of this cycle, but that would take years of psych work in a maximum security psych institution. But even there, the psychopath might well be much more intelligent than the doctors and shrinks, and fool them into having them think he’s cured, just to get out and kill again. That would almost act like a mandate to kill again. They’ve conquered the best in psych care and so have all power in their mind-game.

She said the TRIAD psychopath’s first killing is an experimental gateway. After the first killing there “has to be” many more, very many more. It’s like the arson thing going on right now. They could be copycat, but really, they are close together, one after the other, almost like a challenge. That’s how it is with serial killers. She said that all the serial killer cases she is familiar with have the TRIAD. But…

(B) Recognizing indicators post-hoc (too late) but the impossibility of using indicators as predictors before the fact.

I spoke at length with a world class psychologist friend of very many years. He says that while you can say that every psychopath killer has this TRIAD happenstance, it is an illogicity to say that those who have TRIAD behavioral history will certainly become serial killers. Indicators not predictors. Thus:

  • Self-entitled white boys don’t all become church or shopping mall shooters.
  • Not all poor black boys become gang members shooting each other down.
  • Not all mosque attending Muslim men become or plot to become terrorists.
  • Not all white Puritan women in Salem, Massachusetts were guilty of being witches just because they were accused. Etc.

Those are just analogies, limping at that, as they are based on prejudicial profiling instead of individual behavioral history. But what my other friend was trying to say is that indicators are not the whole story. You might note those indicators, but they are not proof. We are not so absolutely determined by unrepeatable personal histories of whatever behaviors. To say that we are entirely determined by historical indicators actually pushes people into jacking up the stakes. It gives them as excuse. It’s what society has done to them. They’re not culpable. They are the animal that has been tortured and made into an object. They are now simply lashing out. Who can blame them? So, it’s all a mind game. On the one hand, you don’t want a TRIAD offender to kill someone. On the other hand, you don’t want to give him an excuse. And you sure don’t want to say all TRIAD offenders are serial killers waiting for opportunities.

(C) There’s actually a third part ending with such as DARPA COMPASS

I personally know someone who has this TRIAD history on steroids, big time, all three, the bed-wetting, the torture of animals, the arson. That person has shot at me many times. You don’t easily forget bullets whizzing past your head. It took him no time at all after the arson bit. That person became an arms dealer for the Sinaloa cartel. That person told me recently enough that he wants to kill Jews. But when you say to appropriate people – “I’ve always heard, if you see something, say something, so this is what’s going down…” – the invariable response interrupting any reporting has been:

Look, I don’t have any idea about any arsonist(s) here in Andrews. But, like Maya in the video up top of this post, I’m 100% on the intent of this guy I know. All the indicators are there. Ooops! I just crossed the line from indicators to predictors, didn’t I? Yes. That’s because there’s a bit of emotion in it for me. That confuses things right quick for anybody. That’s a no go. But, can someone set me straight on this, say, in the field of criminology? Again, I won’t publish your comment if you tell me not to do that. I gotta wonder if the DARPA COMPASS crowd are subject to emotion. Reading their presentation is like reading a rationalization for assassination based not on any wrongdoing but merely confusing indicators to predictors. The rationalization:

  • The geeks behind computer screens indicating possible targets for field officers to decide to kill or not: “We’re not pulling the trigger. That’s the decision of the field officer.”
  • The field officer getting target info from the geeks: “We’re not really pulling the trigger. That’s the decision of the geeks at DARPA. How can I question their gaming theory combined with situational awareness. Take the guy out.”

Meanwhile, a guy who shuns terrorism is killed because it’s thought he might think about it, maybe, perhaps. Confusing indicators and predictors. Hmmm….

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Mike Pompeo on China. Bringing swagger back.

Now, if we could just do something more about the persecution of Catholics and human rights abuses in China. But I have a feeling that this is also a concern in the present administration specifically in regard to China such that this will also arise more strongly in negotiations between these USA and China.

I’m not going to comment much on volleys of whatever kind between the Holy See and China in the last couple of years. A new friend, privy to that goes on with such things, enlightened me that there is much more going on behind the scenes, much much more.

But on a secular level, I’m so happy to see these USA speak frankly about some of the nefarious practices of China.

I even detect a bit of swagger, as was promised. That’s refreshing.

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Killing the FBI in my parish

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Holy Mass was offered in my parish for the repose of the soul of a Huntsville, Alabama FBI forensic photographer who suffered what is termed a suspicious death the other week in my parish, that is, in one of the most remote patches of national forest in North America, up at historic Stewart Cabin campground. Google-Map “Stewart Cabin” to see just how remote it is from… anything…

In my varied life I’ve learned that that which answers a question the most consistently – internally and externally – and also the most simply, leaving little room for complexities to be subject to confirmation bias or whatever manipulation, is usually the hypothesis that’s getting closer to the truth than anything else. Everything about this seems rotten to the core.

The FBI has already swarmed away (along with four other law enforcement agencies), for what it’s worth depending on who’s directing things. But when something like this happens in my parish, I take it personally. Was she doing something she shouldn’t have been doing, you know, from whatever perspective on whatever side of the fence? Was she doing something way too well, getting too close to the truth? Was she just taking pictures of nature? Really? Appearances mean nothing one way or the other when it comes to this level of law enforcement. So, again, if it happens in my parish, I’m personally offended. It is what it is.

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Taking aim at my lack of aim because…

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Before I got my purchase permit and then immediately my concealed carry permit here in Western North Carolina 2+ years ago, I had never shot a pistol in my life. I got it because in some places of our Catholic Diocese a prerequisite for being a police chaplain is to go though critical incident training facilitated by the FBI. Part of the course deals with terrorists and terrorism and situational awareness and the handling of critical incidents so as to facilitate the most people surviving in whatever ways of assistance that is possible according to the possibilities.

Because of unforeseen contingencies, the agents make you familiar with, that is, know how to break down and set up and accurately fire under any conditions pretty much any kind of gun there is, at least all the variants used by any police department or police response unit in one’s region. While I figured I could learn how to work with rifles or shotguns easy enough (though I would have to stare at the math for sniper work a bit), I also thought that it would be more difficult to acquire skills for a pistol, such as shooting while running, etc., and that those lack of skills would slow me down.

As one can tell from the older pictures above, early on I was tending to make grip mistakes, with inconsistency being my strong point, you know, with being self-taught and all that. It’s pretty bad when inconsistency is your strongest point! I had plenty of hyper-qualified people giving advice, but only rarely would I be at a range with anyone. The hermitage is the most middle of nowhere place for a range imaginable. Leading myself, it’s the blind leading the blind. And it’s that way until today. So, I need practice. But I haven’t been able to have a good extended session for really quite a long time now. And since those pictures were taken above I’ve pretty much limited myself to various tactical pistol courses, such as this simple one for periodic pistol qualification for already serving FBI agents. It’s easy as they don’t want agents getting a DQ, a disqualification. Here’s that course pictured below:

That picture is also pretty old, but it exactly represents what I put up the other day in the exact same place at the hermitage. Those are legal size paper details of the inside bottle of the QIT 97-99 set out at 3-5-7-15-25 yards. One draws from the holster for various combinations of shots and timings. Here’s what I had just started to do on the infamous “Day Off” the other day in a totally relaxed manner. Timings are in hundredths of seconds:

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So, not so quick. Cutting those times in half would be ideal. But the hits were all in time and all accurate. But that’s a false report, really, as I didn’t bother to get myself worked up with a bit of adrenaline (as one can do with, say, hill sprints, or not!), which adrenaline is what will always happen in a critical incident. Anyway, after this, I had planned on doing the FAMs course and SEALs course, et al., but I didn’t even finish stage four (of five stages) a couple of minutes into the first run through the FBI course.

The phone rang. The police.

As soon as I answered, I knew I was done with any shooting for the day and started packing up the targets mid-course while I continued speaking. That phone call went on for a very long time there on that mountain trail up to the hermitage. The phone cut out multiple times (no strong cell-tower signal at the hermitage) but we reconnected and continued until we talked ourselves out for the day. It was getting dark out, so I headed down the ridge and had a great chat and meal with the neighbors and then got myself back home before midnight. Some hundreds of miles. The next day was given to research about that conversation, and today will be given over to answering this interlocutor by email.

The guy with whom I was talking is well known to all police chiefs in the country. He recommended lots of things to me to put some past skills at the service of law enforcement locally, in these USA, and on a more international basis. I recognized in him a spirit which I only sometimes come across. His devotion to God and country, his patriotism, his integrity, the suffering he’s been through, all so inspiring.

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HALO 78,000 ft > mach 3 SR71

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Call 911! Simultaneous church incidents. Confessing situational UN-awareness.

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We had some sort of emergency in the far back corner of Holy Redeemer Church this past Sunday, September 8, at the end of the offertory of the 11:00 AM Mass. Our entire church can fit into most sanctuaries of most churches, so, the far back corner of the church is, like, merely 25 feet away from the altar.

Someone cried out: “Call 911!” And the chorus of “Call 911!” multiplied in seconds. But there was no noisy commotion. No one said what the emergency was in those first seconds. I hiked it down from the altar to the back of the church in those few seconds. Pastor is as pastor does, right? As I then found out, it was a medical emergency for one of our ushers. In mere seconds, I gave an emergency anointing of the sick to the usher even before they were able to lay him down on the floor. EMS arrived minutes later and our usher is just fine now.

Since our faith family is small, we’re pretty tightly knit, so you can imagine our hearts were entirely in solidarity with our usher. You might say that we were distracted, that anyone bothering to have any situational awareness could now relax as it’s surely impossible that any other critical incident indicators that might present themselves cannot happen, because, you know, emergencies rarely happen, and un-associated and entirely diverse critical incidents never happen at the same time. So, go ahead, let your guard down, right? Wrong.

We immediately continued Mass starting with the Preface. “The Lord be with you!” “And with your spirit!” came the strikingly strong response. I can’t imagine that anyone would or, humanly speaking, could complain about these few seconds given over for the anointing, either time-wise or appropriateness-wise. So, no big deal, right? But something else happened in those few seconds in back of the church which should have had me run after someone so as to get a licence plate without him realizing it, you know, right after that anointing. That would have been logistically pretty easy in our circumstances. But I didn’t do it. Stupid me. Let’s review.

We had an unusually high number of visitors throughout the church. The emergency and the calls to call 911 were happening right in back of a certain visitor, who, unlike the others, did not come with a family. Never seen him before. He was alone [… description removed…]. By the time I got next to that certain visitor who was sitting at the end of the pew in the side aisle in that back corner of the church, with me just about to reach over others to anoint our usher, the visitor guy came out of the end of the pew and simply pushed me into those holding up the usher, that is, out of his own way. The visitor guy then bolted to the front-side door of the church and made good his escape. “Escape…”

The push wasn’t anything violent, but it was forceful enough to get the job done (I’m a pretty big guy), forceful enough that I had to turn to look at him while he bolted out. It was all too surreal. I was instantly all questions about who he was and what he was up to. I watched him until he went out the door next to the sanctuary in, say, four seconds. Whatever about him, I then turned my attention over to the usher so as to get him anointed.

Many are able to keep a sense of situational awareness for a singular critical incident that may take place at any given time, but it is not so easy to be entirely in the midst of one incident while another, entirely un-associated and entirely diverse and utterly unexpected critical incident begins at the same time in the same place. That’s what was happening here. This was an excellent experience easily able to demonstrate lack of readiness. Humility is always needed. To be noted:

  • The visitor was visibly shaken when the calls to call 911 rang out right behind him. A description of his fear from someone who, having turned around in the pew directly in front of him, looking him square in the face, was that he was all worked up in fear, something you can’t do instantaneously. Shock is one thing, freezing up. But being worked up in fear is another thing altogether. This was a fear he was already in the midst of, during which the calls to call 911 took him by surprise. He did NOT turn to see what was happening right in back of him in those first seconds when it was not being said if this was a medical emergency or a law enforcement emergency of some kind. Everyone else turned to see what was happening. That he didn’t turn to see what was going on right behind him is quite impossible. Was it that any medical emergency was insignificant compared to what he himself was about to cause? Did he feel caught out in some way, that someone recognized him?

Recall the discovery of “White Hat”, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, one of the two terrorist bombers of the Boston Marathon, now locked up in the ultra-super-max ADX facility in Florence, Colorado. He was the only one who did NOT look at the explosion as it took place on Boylston Street near the finish line of the race. He is the only one who looked away from the explosion, and then made good his escape:

I have the link of that video set to 49:36. Watch until 50:35, just under a minute. This is a lesson in catching out a bad actor. Note how the terrorist guy doesn’t look, but looks away. This is important. Also:

  • The visitor guy quietly said something with quiet deliberate determination as a proclamation to himself, to God, to neighbor, though as a kind of soliloquy:

“No! – I can’t do this! – I have to leave!”

This was not a frantic, panic attack statement, nor a statement issuing from PTSD. It was all quite deliberate, even ever so slightly tinged with anger, but not at any of us, but rather with himself, disappointed, it seems, perhaps, that he had actually decided to do something horrific, but was just now changing his mind. He wasn’t at all in panic-like fear. Nor was he suffering from wartime violent sensory overload and couldn’t bear to see anything anymore even in the form of a non-violent medical emergency. He didn’t know if it was a medical emergency or he was being called out. If he was a bad actor and was just now changing his mind to not do the unthinkable, a medical emergency and calls to 911 would act as a preview of what he himself was about to bring about. He couldn’t take it.

(1) “No!” — This is an answer, voiced for himself to hear physically, regarding an internal agonizing dialogue that he had been having, much longer than just a few seconds.

(2) “I can’t do this!” — The reasoned conclusion isn’t about someone deciding to get over agoraphobia and feeling like a failure, so that he had heroically decided to be in a place as public as a church but was failing in the attempt. No. For all his fear, his words were way too deliberate to be issuing from panic. The reference of “this” is not a reference to a PTSD episode. Again, note that the statement was reasoned and deliberate. He was thinking about doing some thing, not thinking about suffering some episode. He’s entrenching his “No!”

(3) “I have to leave!” — He was a heap of chaotic emotions. IF he was a bad actor – and I’m not saying that he was (I’m just using this as a lesson in situational awareness) – but if he was a bad actor and had repented on the spot, he would want to get himself the heck out of there lest he change his mind. And the dichotomy between what he was seeing in the calm worshiping and his would-be senseless violence was too much to handle in front of others. He needed to be alone to sort things out. Such on the spot repentance is one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Good for him. He did it. He did the right thing. This was grace at work. The Holy Spirit working on him. His conscience getting to him. Great!

If that guy is reading this, and I’m wrong about all this, please, accept my apologies. It’s just that this makes for a good lesson in situational awareness. If you’re a good actor, you’ll understand that we can’t be too careful in these weird days of waaaay toooo many critical incidents, and that we have to learn from out-of-the-ordinary behaviors. It’s not you I’m judging. I’m just wondering about the ensemble of indicators. That’s all.

If that guy is reading this, and I’m right about all this, please, know that God loves you and wants you in heaven for ever. Yep. God’s love is more powerful than anything we could ever come up with. He wants us back. Always. If you’re Catholic, Go to Confession! Taking your own life is not allowed. You are not beyond redemption, not beyond salvation. God loves you. We love you. God’s love is more powerful. Don’t hate yourself. Just receive our Lord’s forgiveness. I, for one, would give you a do-able penance for sure. And the secret of any Confession is absolute. This is what we have to be about in this world, helping each other to get to heaven. We can be thankful to the Lord together, for Jesus’ mercy endures forever. Amen.

The time that the visitor guy was noticed in particular and until he left the church was, like, eight seconds. These things take place very quickly.

If there was a scary part, it was that he hesitated, wavered for just a split second before exiting out the side door, like he had to make one final decision not to do something.

Finally: Thanks go to guardian angels.

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Filed under Confession, Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Missionaries of Mercy, Situational awareness, Terrorism

Law officers, counterintel, humility. Shadow-dog and Chesterton…

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GSD’s, being wolves, are baiter-hunters. Domesticated just enough, Shadow-dog, for instance, thinks he sees something not entirely irredeemable in me, and so is forever trying his loyal best to teach me about the baiting game, because proper counterintelligence techniques are what anyone who’s not entirely naive would want to have in their toolkit for life, you know, what Jesus mentioned to us all – commanded us, really – that we are to be as clever as serpents even while being as innocent as doves what with being sent out as lambs in the midst of wolves…

So, there Shadow-dog stands in front of me, his instruction for me being in the form of play. That one plays does not mean that one is not deadly serious. Competitive fun as a form of instruction makes learning enjoyable, and therefore naturally memorable.

Shadow-dog is not cross-eyed, but he is that ever so slightly at this moment, trying to guess how I will take up his challenge to take his bait. He’s electrified, and like a contained explosion, is instantly ready to burst in whatever direction. Do I lunge to the left or right or straight ahead?

  • If I go straight ahead he lunges at me and we collide in less than a nano-second.
  • If I go to the left, he also goes to the left, just way faster than I ever could, and is that a dog-laugh I heard?
  • If I go to the right, he also goes to the right, just way faster than I ever could, and is that a dog-laugh I heard?

You would think he would chase off in the opposite direction, but, no. He enjoys a good dog-laugh. And this is the instruction Shadow-dog provides. Trying in every which way to indicate that I’m going to lunge in a different direction, he always is way ahead of me, reading me like a book.

But then, rarely, randomly, after having taught me to lunge in a direction I think he’s going to lunge in, Shadow-dog will instead head off in the opposite direction from which I’m lunging. After just a few steps, he then instantly turns, and, now all relaxed, having done his work in instructing my stupidity, he calmly stares, entirely happy with himself. The dog-smirk is unbearably humiliating. And then it’s time to get petted for a job he knows has been well done. He trots right over to me. Gooooood daaaaawwwg! “Unbearably humilitating” is also great learning territory. And he knows it. We make a good team. Someday, perhaps, I will learn.

chess board robert van der steeg impossible world

The problem with finding the right people for counterintelligence is in finding those who have some humility. Counterintelligence baits people to be arrogant: “I’ve got them now! – I’m in control! – Look at me!” Pride is the enemy of counterintel success. Humility, humility, humility.

Let’s see what that looks like in a counterintel situation. Let’s see what that looks like in the chapter of the Father Brown stories of G.K. Chesterton called The Secret of Father Brown in the volume also by that name. Chesterton uses the Father Brown character to go out of his way to humiliate (with good intentions) all law enforcement and our intel services. All in good humor and in good faith.

Here’s the deal: When the police chase a criminal they try to think like a criminal. But thinking merely “like” a criminal is not good enough. Meanwhile, the criminal is desperately trying to think “like” the police. But thinking merely “like” the police is never enough. Such scruples on both sides are to be avoided. ;-)

If you grapple with this simple story, it’ll be an occasion to enter deeply into the reality of life, making you quite successful with counterintelligence:

CHESTERTON FATHER BROWN

THE SECRET OF FATHER BROWN

FLAMBEAU, once the most famous criminal in France and later a very private detective in England, had long retired from both professions. Some say a career of crime had left him with too many scruples for a career of detection. Anyhow, after a life of romantic escapes and tricks of evasion, he had ended at what some might consider an appropriate address: in a castle in Spain. The castle, however, was solid though relatively small; and the black vineyard and green stripes of kitchen garden covered a respectable square on the brown hillside. For Flambeau, after all his violent adventures, still possessed what is possessed by so many Latins, what is absent (for instance) in so many Americans, the energy to retire. It can be seen in many a large hotel-proprietor whose one ambition is to be a small peasant. It can be seen in many a French provincial shopkeeper, who pauses at the moment when he might develop into a detestable millionaire and buy a street of shops, to fall back quietly and comfortably on domesticity and dominoes. Flambeau had casually and almost abruptly fallen in love with a Spanish Lady, married and brought up a large family on a Spanish estate, without displaying any apparent desire to stray again beyond its borders. But on one particular morning he was observed by his family to be unusually restless and excited; and he outran the little boys and descended the greater part of the long mountain slope to meet the visitor who was coming across the valley; even when the visitor was still a black dot in the distance.

The black dot gradually increased in size without very much altering in the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills; but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands, as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman’s English friend, Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.

Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and manners of distant lands.

It was on the third night of the priest’s stay at the little chateau that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands, cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone might have marked the man’s nationality, as well the nasal note in his refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill. He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real family name of Duroc; for the other title of “The Torch” had only been a title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous and painless American dentistry.

They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house, such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau’s big broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive intelligence.

“I can assure you, sir,” he was saying, “we consider your achievement in the matter of the Moonshine Murder the most remarkable triumph in the history of detective science.”

Father Brown murmured something; some might have imagined that the murmur was a little like a moan.

“We are well acquainted,” went on the stranger firmly, “with the alleged achievements of Dupin and others; and with those of Lecoq, Sherlock Holmes, Nicholas Carter, and other imaginative incarnations of the craft. But we observe there is in many ways, a marked difference between your own method of approach and that of these other thinkers, whether fictitious or actual. Some have spec’lated, sir, as to whether the difference of method may perhaps involve rather the absence of method.”

Father Brown was silent; then he started a little, almost as if he had been nodding over the stove, and said: “I beg your pardon. Yes. . .. Absence of method. . . . Absence of mind, too, I’m afraid.”

“I should say of strictly tabulated scientific method,” went on the inquirer. “Edgar Poe throws off several little essays in a conversational form, explaining Dupin’s method, with its fine links of logic. Dr. Watson had to listen to some pretty exact expositions of Holmes’s method with its observation of material details. But nobody seems to have got on to any full account of your method, Father Brown, and I was informed you declined the offer to give a series of lectures in the States on the matter.”

“Yes,” said the priest, frowning at the stove; “I declined.”

“Your refusal gave rise to a remarkable lot of interesting talk,” remarked Chace. “I may say that some of our people are saying your science can’t be expounded, because it’s something more than just natural science. They say your secret’s not to be divulged, as being occult in its character.”

“Being what?” asked Father Brown, rather sharply.

“Why, kind of esoteric,” replied the other. “I can tell you, people got considerably worked up about Gallup’s murder, and Stein’s murder, and then old man Merton’s murder, and now Judge Gwynne’s murder, and a double murder by Dalmon, who was well known in the States. And there were you, on the spot every time, slap in the middle of it; telling everybody how it was done and never telling anybody how you knew. So some people got to think you knew without looking, so to speak. And Carlotta Brownson gave a lecture on Thought-Forms with illustrations from these cases of yours. The Second Sight Sisterhood of Indianapolis —— ”

Father Brown, was still staring at the stove; then he said quite loud yet as if hardly aware that anyone heard him: “Oh, I say. This will never do.”

“I don’t exactly know how it’s to be helped,” said Mr. Chace humorously. “The Second Sight Sisterhood want a lot of holding down. The only way I can think of stopping it is for you to tell us the secret after all.”

Father Brown groaned. He put his head on his hands and remained a moment, as if full of a silent convulsion of thought. Then he lifted his head and said in a dull voice:

“Very well. I must tell the secret.”

His eyes rolled darkly over the whole darkling scene, from the red eyes of the little stove to the stark expanse of the ancient wall, over which were standing out, more and more brightly, the strong stars of the south.

“The secret is,” he said; and then stopped as if unable to go on. Then he began again and said:

“You see, it was I who killed all those people.”

“What?” repeated the other, in a small voice out of a vast silence.

“You see, I had murdered them all myself,” explained Father Brown patiently. “So, of course, I knew how it was done.”

Grandison Chace had risen to his great height like a man lifted to the ceiling by a sort of slow explosion. Staring down at the other he repeated his incredulous question.

“I had planned out each of the crimes very carefully,” went on Father Brown, “I had thought out exactly how a thing like that could be done, and in what style or state of mind a man could really do it. And when I was quite sure that I felt exactly like the murderer myself, of course I knew who he was.”

Chace gradually released a sort of broken sigh.

“You frightened me all right,” he said. “For the minute I really did think you meant you were the murderer. Just for the minute I kind of saw it splashed over all the papers in the States: ‘Saintly Sleuth Exposed as Killer: Hundred Crimes of Father Brown.’ Why, of course, if it’s just a figure of speech and means you tried to reconstruct the psychogy — ”

Father Brown rapped sharply on the stove with the short pipe he was about to fill; one of his very rare spasms of annoyance contracted his face.

“No, no, no,” he said, almost angrily; “I don’t mean just a figure of speech. This is what comes of trying to talk about deep things. . . . What’s the good of words . . .? If you try to talk about a truth that’s merely moral, people always think it’s merely metaphorical. A real live man with two legs once said to me: ‘I only believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense.’ Naturally, I said: ‘In what other sense could you believe it?’ And then he thought I meant he needn’t believe in anything except evolution, or ethical fellowship, or some bilge. . . . I mean that I really did see myself, and my real self, committing the murders. I didn’t actually kill the men by material means; but that’s not the point. Any brick or bit of machinery might have killed them by material means. I mean that I thought and thought about how a man might come to be like that, until I realized that I really was like that, in everything except actual final consent to the action. It was once suggested to me by a friend of mine, as a sort of religious exercise. I believe he got it from Pope Leo XIII, who was always rather a hero of mine.”

“I’m afraid,” said the American, in tones that were still doubtful, and keeping his eye on the priest rather as if he were a wild animal, “that you’d have to explain a lot to me before I knew what you were talking about. The science of detection —— ”

Father Brown snapped his fingers with the same animated annoyance. “That’s it,” he cried; “that’s just where we part company. Science is a grand thing when you can get it; in its real sense one of the grandest words in the world. But what do these men mean, nine times out of ten, when they use it nowadays? When they say detection is a science? When they say criminology is a science? They mean getting outside a man and studying him as if he were a gigantic insect: in what they would call a dry impartial light, in what I should call a dead and dehumanized light. They mean getting a long way off him, as if he were a distant prehistoric monster; staring at the shape of his ‘criminal skull’ as if it were a sort of eerie growth, like the horn on a rhinoceros’s nose. When the scientist talks about a type, he never means himself, but always his neighbour; probably his poorer neighbour. I don’t deny the dry light may sometimes do good; though in one sense it’s the very reverse of science. So far from being knowledge, it’s actually suppression of what we know. It’s treating a friend as a stranger, and pretending that something familiar is really remote and mysterious. It’s like saying that a man has a proboscis between the eyes, or that he falls down in a fit of insensibility once every twenty-four hours. Well, what you call ‘the secret’ is exactly the opposite. I don’t try to get outside the man. I try to get inside the murderer . . . . Indeed it’s much more than that, don’t you see? I am inside a man. I am always inside a man, moving his arms and legs; but I wait till I know I am inside a murderer, thinking his thoughts, wrestling with his passions; till I have bent myself into the posture of his hunched and peering hatred; till I see the world with his bloodshot and squinting eyes, looking between the blinkers of his half-witted concentration; looking up the short and sharp perspective of a straight road to a pool of blood. Till I am really a murderer.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Chace, regarding him with a long, grim face, and added: “And that is what you call a religious exercise.”

“Yes,” said Father Brown; “that is what I call a religious exercise.”

After an instant’s silence he resumed: “It’s so real a religious exercise that I’d rather not have said anything about it. But I simply couldn’t have you going off and telling all your countrymen that I had a secret magic connected with Thought-Forms, could I? I’ve put it badly, but it’s true. No man’s really any good till he knows how bad he is, or might be; till he’s realized exactly how much right he has to all this snobbery, and sneering, and talking about ‘criminals,’ as if they were apes in a forest ten thousand miles away; till he’s got rid of all the dirty self-deception of talking about low types and deficient skulls; till he’s squeezed out of his soul the last drop of the oil of the Pharisees; till his only hope is somehow or other to have captured one criminal, and kept him safe and sane under his own hat.”

Flambeau came forward and filled a great goblet with Spanish wine and set it before his friend, as he had already set one before his fellow guest. Then he himself spoke for the first time:

“I believe Father Brown has had a new batch of mysteries. We were talking about them the other day, I fancy. He has been dealing with some queer people since we last met.”

“Yes; I know the stories more or less — but not the application,” said Chace, lifting his glass thoughtfully. “Can you give me any examples, I wonder. . . . I mean, did you deal with this last batch in that introspective style?”

Father Brown also lifted his glass, and the glow of the fire turned the red wine transparent, like the glorious blood-red glass of a martyr’s window. The red flame seemed to hold his eyes and absorb his gaze that sank deeper and deeper into it, as if that single cup held a red sea of the blood of all men, and his soul were a diver, ever plunging in dark humility and inverted imagination, lower than its lowest monsters and its most ancient slime. In that cup, as in a red mirror, he saw many things; the doings of his last days moved in crimson shadows; the examples that his companions demanded danced in symbolic shapes; and there passed before him all the stories that are told here. Now, the luminous wine was like a vast red sunset upon dark red sands, where stood dark figures of men; one was fallen and another running towards him. Then the sunset seemed to break up into patches: red lanterns swinging from garden trees and a pond gleaming red with reflection; and then all the colour seemed to cluster again into a great rose of red crystal, a jewel that irradiated the world like a red sun, save for the shadow of a tall figure with a high head-dress as of some prehistoric priest; and then faded again till nothing was left but a flame of wild red beard blowing in the wind upon a wild grey moor. All these things, which may be seen later from other angles and in other moods than his own, rose up in his memory at the challenge and began to form themselves into anecdotes and arguments.

“Yes,” he said, as he raised the wine cup slowly to his lips, “I can remember pretty well —— ”

===========

After all that, I wonder if I have to the humility to be the dog, Shadow-dog, not just “like” a dog, but, you know, a dog, and learn what Shadow-dog has to teach me.

After all that, I wonder if I have the humility to be understand just how bad and evil I myself can be, and thus think not just “like” a criminal, but as the criminal I am if I am without the grace of God, and thus be able to catch the criminal, because, you know, I’m him. Of course, when I catch a criminal it’s to bring him to the confessional. The best priests in the Confessional hearing confessions of others are the very priests who also make a practice of regular confession.

Or, heck, instead of all that I could just bait and wait for the counter-bait… and then counter-counter-bait, and then wait for the…

// Hey, I lost track of what’s being reacted to. PAUSE… Then…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

// Pause… whew! Time to get out of counterintel…

============

So, let’s see, maybe there is something to just looking in oneself when looking for any and all criminals, any and all terrorists…. If we ever say, “I would never do that,” we’ve already lost the game. Honesty and integrity and humility admit that even if psychologically I probably wouldn’t do… you know… those crimes… because of my upbringing or whatever… nevertheless I probably would if given the circumstances that others have suffered and I were without God’s grace. Yep. There but for the grace of God go I. A bit aphoristic, I know. But so very, very true. Actually, people can change pretty fast. If one has the purity of heart and agility of soul to see that even one’s very self can do such things, it’s that person that will not do such things because of looking to God’s grace with honesty and integrity and humility. God doesn’t save me because I’m good. God saves me because I need saving and can’t save myself.

Then, when that Living Love who is God and that Living Truth who is God are with me, I can easily see the contrast of what would be bad and evil in myself and therefore what would be bad and evil in others. For law enforcement and counterintel this is also a boon to catching the criminal and the terrorist, regardless of culture, regardless of religion or none, regardless of anything else.

For a priest it’s all about more ably bringing people to Jesus. We priests need to get out of Jesus’ way and let Jesus be the priest in the parish.

We all need to let Jesus work through us, and with us, and in us. Needed: HUMILITY!

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Filed under Dogs, Intelligence Community

Pre-critical-incident forced psych lockup program for would-be active-mass-shooter domestic terrorists already underway? DARPA COMPASS

Google this: DARPA COMPASS. It’s the first entry. This started a while back. The confluence of information replacing the census citizenship question goes a long way to making this happen for those of whatever status in these USA. Algorithms of gaming theory and the OODA Loop can sort out who needs targeting. This seems to be the obvious reference of Trump’s reaction to the El Paso and Dayton shootings on Monday August 5, what his quick due process means. The psych lockup is a dumbed down version. The program usually just gives a target-name to a field operator who terminates the possible terroristic threat. The mere psych lockup for those in these USA makes the program seem a bit more acceptable as a way to do something about mass shootings.

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Military, Situational awareness, Terrorism

Diplomatic Security Rosslyn (and me)

spy vs spyThe Bureau for Diplomatic Security (DS) in Rosslyn, at the behest of Counterintel for Consular Services (CCS) at the Department of State (DoS) at Foggy Bottom (“Main State”), early in 2019, declared to me that they had been in charge of creating two of me, purposely establishing and issuing to someone else (who looks quite like me and is about the same age) secured identity, including a U.S. Passport, with all of my own identifying characteristics. The program may have started way back in the mid-late 1970s. I say “declaration” in that this revelation was emphasized and repeated.

Until they disabused me of my naïveté, I had always thought that someone had stolen my identity. Not at all. That guy needed an unwitting fall guy in the wings, just in case. There are many persons in need of a fall guy.

But there’s two of me, I objected.

So, what’s the problem? Can you use your identity? it was asked rhetorically.

Yes, said I with the most deadpan voice I could muster.

♬ Soooooooooooo! ♬ No problem then! ♬ said the now melodious voice.

You have to know that Diplomatic Security prosecutes a few problem fraudulent passports, those used for more than the usual criminal fraud, namely, something more along the lines of terrorists and foreign spies (sometimes diplomats) with multiple alternative identities, including as U.S. citizens. They also issue passports for certain people stationed at certain consulates and embassies, where even the janitors are CIA and FBI officers and agents unable to use their real identities.

Silly me, I brought up the possibility that there must be some mistake. Not at all. It was insisted upon that Diplomatic Security Rosslyn never makes mistakes, not ever. When we issue a passport, he said, that passport in the hand of that person is indeed for that person. No mistakes. Not ever. It’s who that person is, because we issued that passport to that person. If he has that passport in his hand, it’s for him. End of story. No mistakes, not ever.

But there’s two of me, I objected.

It’s not a mistake. It was insisted upon. ♯ We ♯ Don’t ♯ Make ♯ Mistakes ♯

As to this last point, pretty much every sensitive ongoing operation is done with a credible fall guy – often unwitting – with me being the fall guy for the one to whom they issued my identity, under which he entrenched as an arms supplier for the new Sinaloa Cartel. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security (by whatever name) was already doing this kind of thing for now more than a century. It’s their 101st anniversary this year (2019). Wikipedia’s top-line summary:

The Bureau of Diplomatic Security, more commonly known as Diplomatic Security, or DS, is the security and law enforcement arm of the United States Department of State. DS is a world leader in international investigations, threat analysis, cyber security, counterterrorism, security technology, and protection of people, property, and information. DS’s mission is to provide a safe and secure environment for officials to carry out U.S. foreign policy.”

One might finish that last sentence with “…often at the expense, sometimes fatal, of unwitting citizens in good standing of these United States.”

The idea behind propping up one cartel over another, it is said, is to be able to more easily control the situation. That didn’t quite work. But that’s the idea. It’s always about the economy. And anyway, competing cartels wasn’t so much of a thing back in the day. We created “El Chapo”, bringing his violence to bear, effectively creating the Sinaloa Cartel.

I always despised my identity being used for anything benefiting Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzmán Lorea. My name is written all over so many guns, so many bullets, which have been used to kill so many people. Were these cartel agents, even of different cartels, sicarios and disloyal druggies who were killed? Sure. Those guns and bullets were also used to kill untold numbers of innocent men, women and children just to instill fear. It is said that “El Chapo” is treated as a god in Mexico, but that is out of fear, regardless of how much nice stuff he gave to people with money he otherwise couldn’t launder anyway. I don’t like my name being used for all this.

“El Chapo” is now enjoying the extra security of the ultra-super-max solitary confinement of the ADX facility in Florence, Colorado. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. That means it’s only begun. Locking him up is not something you do and then you cheer. Vengeance for the vengeance is coming. There’s an entire Cartel which is now especially upset. If we created “El Chapo” and we are now treating him in this way, well, I’m sure there will be some who reckon that a reckoning needs to be done. The monster is now bigger than “El Chapo.” When you take out a devil you might get Satan himself to replace him.

Which brings me to the point of this screed. There are a couple of favors – easy to do, ever so easy, which I think I’ve earned – that Diplomatic Security Rosslyn could and should do for me (with a heads-up to CCS). DS asked me what these requests might be, but I regrettably had to decline to mention them over a cell phone. Perhaps I can put the request in through a favorite congressman. But really, does this have to get even more stupid than it already is? Could I just talk to someone in, say, the Diplomatic Security building in Greensboro, N.C.?

P.S. For decades I’ve been baiting for any takers in an effort to figure all this out. Some took the bait not knowing what they were wading into. How annoying. But I opened myself up to that. I get what I deserve. But now the dynamics change, radically. If DS openly admits all this to me, it’s not because they think there’s no supporting documentation (they know there is), but rather because I’m so very unimportant and so utterly expendable and am an absolute nobody, just another typical fall guy. This is the normal course of affairs. It is what it is. My talking about it proves nothing. I’m still totally the fall guy. I would still like to have a chat with someone in Greensboro.

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