Today’s featured image: Our new apartment is just a few minutes’ walk from a nature reserve. It was a major deciding factor when I picked this place. Though we’re inconveniently far from the city center, this forest will help us keep our sanity in the coming months. This day was the first day that really felt like spring, and it was magical to explore this forest for the first time. I’m sure I’ll know it well by the time we leave.
I was trying to finish the first draft of this ramble before my wife Ashley arrived in Sweden. It only happened because her flight got cancelled and gave me an extra pair of mornings to write. That detail gives me a convenient segue to a relevant anecdote. Although Ashley and I have been discussing moving to Europe for years, it only became real for her last year. Before that, it was a nice-sounding hypothetical. When she got to Visby in 2023 with the understanding that this could soon be a long term home, it was no longer a hypothetical, and the reality of the expat/immigrant life became much more palpable. People speak a strange language, the writing on the packaging and signs is familiar yet incomprehensible, the grocery stores are disappointing, and family and friends feel so much farther away. Ashley moved from a position of excited interest to a place of terror quickly.
I have been trying to empathize with this feeling, but I’ve lived abroad for so long that, for me, the experience sits perfectly in the goldilocks zone of exciting and interesting (between terror and boredom). Sometimes, it even falls into an unexcited state of boredom. Even when I first moved abroad in 2015, I very rarely found myself in a state of chaotic overwhelm. Moving to Korea was almost pure excitement. I couldn’t get enough of the strangeness of the place, of a city that never slept, and of a language that was beyond foreign. Indeed, it got to the point that I was getting bored after less than a year. However, there was at least one time in my life that I had the same feeling of petrified terror in for a journey into unexplored territory.
Confronting the Dragon of Chaos
I actually don’t remember much, probably because of how tightly fear gripped me during those couple days, but my parents have recounted the tale. It was the last couple days of June 2009, and we had travelled to Annapolis, Maryland where I was about to start basic training at the Naval Academy. My parents tell me that it was easy to recognize which ones were the prospective midshipmen and which were family of the poor kid because of the deer-in-the-headlights stare we all exhibited. We could see the Dragon of Chaos, and we were petrified. No matter how much we read or heard about the coming experience, nothing could prepare us for the real thing. We were about to walk willingly into the Dragon’s lair, naked and unarmed. We were sure to be roasted and devoured.
Except, of course, what we saw was a paper dragon, a mask worn by the cadre of midshipmen and officers who had passed through this exact same initiation ritual in years prior. The philosophy of basic training is simple: break you down and then build you back up better and stronger. The first month of training is designed to be chaos. There is almost nonstop shouting, the clocks are covered, and you are always doing something wrong. In other words, you are in a place where nothing makes sense to you. There is a method to the madness, and your first test is to get comfortable with being ignorant of that method. The second month is when they start to teach you the skills you need to play this new game, and in the coming years, the game is slowly revealed. Eventually, it becomes painfully clear just how cartoonish that paper dragon actually was. Yet it served its purpose: ritualized descent and disintegration, the first contact with the unknown that characterized the story of the Revolutionary Hero.
Figure 50 from Peterson (1999)
I didn’t learn a great many practical skills (unless you count making my bed and ironing my shirt), but I learned how to acquire skills by placing myself far outside of my comfort zone. All first-year midshipmen at the Naval Academy are required to take an eight-week boxing class that meets once a week. No title fighters are being made in these eight sessions. The only skills you actually learn are how to hold up your guard and throw a few basic punches. The real point of the class is to teach you how to keep your composure when you get punched (repeatedly) in the face. Or rather, it is to show you that you can keep you composure. That’s not something one can really teach; you just have to learn it through experience.
Such a skill of being comfortable in total chaos enables a teaching method I like to call “sink or swim”. When I started flight school, I was about as prepared as one can be. Yet when I took the controls of the 600 hp training aircraft, I couldn’t do anything right. My few flights involved nonstop correction from the instructor in the backseat. Total unexplored territory. Almost nothing I did had the desired effect. I very nearly broke down in the cockpit. But I didn’t. I remember that feeling of my last flight, taxiing back to our spot, resisting the urge to collapse into a sobbing heap of despair. When I told my instructor the next week that I wanted to drop out of flight school, he was shocked because I was his best student. That I would be absolutely terrible at flying was entirely expected. It’s how they make highly skilled pilots so quickly.
Had there been no escape hatch, I would have finished flight school and likely excelled as I had done up to that point. But the reality is that I quit. I’ll never truly know what I could have been capable of. We never know what we’re capable of until circumstances conspire to force us to overcome a challenge we never thought possible. I willingly joined the Navy, but without their insistence, I never would have grown as strong as I did. You don’t know what you’re capable of, and you are likely underestimating yourself by a very wide margin.
I moved to Korea less than a year later. I had been thoroughly initiated into the practice of jumping off into the unknown, trusting that I’m capable of surviving just about any level of chaos, and making order out of it. By comparison to what I had just experienced, moving to Korea – where I was picked up at the airport and my employer arranged housing, banking, and healthcare – was a walk in the park. It was then an opportunity to find my own adventures, to go off into unexplored territory as much as I could make time for. I was frequently in that goldilocks zone of excited interest. I think that’s why that year was, up to that point, the best year of my life, by a long shot. It may have been the year that I was most fully alive.
Ashley certainly hasn’t been hiding in her comfort zone all her life. She has adventured and pushed her boundaries and become a capable and independent woman (much of what attracted me to her in the first place), but this move to Sweden – cutting ties with many of the foundational aspects of life like grocery shopping, seeing the doctor, finding a job, etc. – puts her in a place where she doesn’t know which actions will produce the desired results. This is chaos. This is likely the greatest confrontation with the Dragon of Chaos she has ever had, and she’ll need to do it, to a large degree, alone. She won’t have the encouragement of a squad of classmates or the direction of experienced cadre or a clear roadmap developed over decades of institutional evolution. She’ll just have me, and I’m also figuring this out as I go along. But without me, she never would have made such a leap, never would have confronted such chaos voluntarily. I am quite certain that she will be better, stronger, and more capable for having embarked on this adventure, but she’s now 33 years old. That this hasn’t happened earlier in her life indicates a failure of our society.
A culture in decay
That a tiny fraction of American youths learn how to tread confidently through a place of total chaos is a sign of a culture in decay. When the youth of a nation are not given the tools to navigate their way through strangeness, it does not take long for the entire society to become utterly dependent on the stability of its protective structures. It becomes a nation divided into fascists and decadents, neither of which have truly faced the unknown. The fascist wants to return to an idealized past, return to an order that seemed stable, to make America great again.
The decadent wants to destroy the structures of society in pursuit of an idealized future, to defund the police and force the government to negotiate a Green New Deal, ignorant of the dangers of such chaotic upheaval.
The result may be that one group wins and leads the nation into disaster when they try to navigate based on an incomplete map of reality. More likely, though, the culture merely decays into irrelevance as more and more people give up and adopt hedonistic nihilism. It is a culture in which discomfort is avoided because the only thing worth pursuing in life is pleasure. It’s Huxley’s Brave New World of people benumbed to all discomfort, completely disconnected from living. The argument can be made that the modern West has been on the path to a brave new world for the better part of a century now (Academy of ideas, 2024).
If culture is the collected wisdom of how one does things – how the necessities of life are grown, collected, transformed, and prepared – then such a society in which everything is mass-produced by someone else and pastimes are dominated by purely consumptive actions such as watching TV or imbibing food and drink is one without culture. There is no goal to pursue, but merely a vague desire for “happiness”, whatever that means.
I stand by my claim that what our society needs most is courage, but we also need an answer to the following question: courage to do what? My answer is the courage to pursue a goal that you know you’ll never attain. That failure to attain the goal may well be because of physical or mental inability. However, an even better reason is that the goal will be abandoned sooner or later in pursuit of a higher goal.
Praying to the icons
Let’s leave the abstract world for a moment and return to another personal anecdote. During the first couple months of 2024, I spent a lot of time at the gym. I had only one month left in Visby, and I wanted to see how much stronger I could get. Between sets, I walked away from the weights and paced while shaking out my muscles. I don’t sit and stare at my phone as has become the norm at the gym. I was enculturated with an etiquette that says you don’t sit down at the gym, and that’s a cultural practice I’ll gladly defend. As I prepared for the next set, I would stand up tall, and my gaze would naturally rise above the mirror (I mostly don’t want to stare at myself the whole time). Above the mirror is a row of photographs of gleaming bodybuilders: Frank Zane, Ronnie Coleman, Dorian Yates, Arnold Schwarzenegger, among others. These are the icons of the weightroom, just like you find an icon of the Virgin Mary and Jesus on the cross in a church. Like Jesus is perfectly without sin, these icons are perfect in their physique, every muscle developed to its fullest and clearly visible with no fat (or water) to hide beneath. When I look down again at my own form in the mirror, my insufficiency is clear. I am far from that level of bulk or definition, and I know full well that I’ll never get there. But the goal orients me.
After this intense month of pumping iron, my physique became, if only slightly, more like that of the icons. And this result fully justifies their presence on the wall. By pursuing the ideal, I grew stronger and, more importantly, learned more about my own body. As my physique develops, a new ideal emerges: what I could be. How big is big enough? How defined is defined enough? How little fat is little enough? The answers to those questions emerge slowly as I train my body to be capable of what I want to be able to do, a goal that is also constantly evolving. For a while, I was rock climbing, and now I’m training Muy Thai. Whatever I choose, I was set up for success by all the coaches and trainers I’ve learned from who gave me the tools to pursue whatever idols of physical ability attract me. With each training session, I get a bit closer to one of those ideals, but even if I change my focus slightly, I’ll still be moving toward the meta-ideal of physical capability.
“Culture focuses the aim; then it is the intervention of nature that produces the autonomy” (Jordan Peterson, 2017).
My culture provides the idols, but my natural endowments of muscle type, bone structure, and psychological interest decide which I will pursue and how close I can get. There were many ways in which my culture set me up for failure, but there were also many ways it set me up for success. I can only figure out which is which by testing myself in an endless variety of new challenges. When I fail (i.e. when I encounter a challenge that my culture had not prepared me for), my responsibility as an individual is to keep trying until I find a way to succeed. When I teach my new method to peers, students, or my children, I modify our culture with an improvement that makes it more capable. What was unexplored territory for my generation will be explored territory for my children’s generation so long as I fulfill my role as representative of culture by teaching them well. This is how I, the hero of my story, become the Good King in my child’s story.
This process ought to happen continuously as I continue learning and passing on that knowledge. Learning requires repeated contact with the unknown, which requires acceptance of the unknown’s infinity. Peterson (1999, p.316) writes, “Humility is … courageous – as admission of error and possibility for error constitutes the necessary precondition for confrontation with the unknown.”
The one who embraces humility lives in the image of Christ. “Whoever humbles himself like this child, he is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 18:4). The standard interpretation of the Christian myth is linear: Jesus died for our sins, and now we’re all saved and will live in heaven once and for all. I subscribe to a less common interpretation.
If we shorten our time horizon considerably, the story can indeed work as a cyclical one. Let’s take a seemingly contradictory statement from John 11:25-26: “Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.’” Perhaps death represents different things here. We modern, rational, scientific types first think of death as a physical process in which the body ceases to function. This is not what Jesus means here. He means a symbolic death, perhaps only the death of ego consciousness. As we discussed in Part II, ego consciousness is the part of the psyche that keeps track of the running narrative of one’s life, the part you’re probably referring to when you say “I”. Ego consciousness does not only die once, but a thousand times. It dies every night when the Sun is buried in a cave behind an immovable boulder and is born again each morning when the Sun ascends into the heavens. Those who have faith and follow the teachings while not reaping the rewards immediately shall enter the kingdom of heaven, a place that is mostly described in allegory: “It is like a grain of mustard seed which a man took and sowed in his garden; and it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches” (Luke 13:18). Heaven seems less like an actual place than a process.
Nietzsche was a vitriolic critic of the church in part because he recognized its importance and believed it was failing to teach the true message of the scriptures. Nietzsche was insistent that we must understand ourselves as incessantly evolving processes. The overman (übermensch) is not defined by a state of being but by a pattern of behavior, a constant upward striving, an unquenchable will to power. “That is what I call Dionysian… to realize in oneself the eternal joy of becoming” (quoted in Thiele, 1990, p.217).
What if that direction is Heaven? Not a place to dwell, but an orientation. The moon at which the finger of the scriptures points, an ideal that can never be reached but the pursuit of which makes for a heaven on earth. “No one has ascended into heaven but he who descended from heaven, the Son of Man” (John 3:13). When we have lived righteously, died and been reborn in the morning, we enter the Kingdom of God, yesterday’s hero who created a better world for us today. If we are each the hero of our own story, then God is not some deity in the sky but the part of each of us that pulls us upwards. “The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: neither shall they say lo here! or lo there! for behold, the kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 20:21). As Charlie Chaplin once put it, “The kingdom of God is within man – not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people have the power! … the power to create happiness. You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.”
Each day, if we play the part of the exploratory hero, we build a kingdom of God for us and our communities to inhabit the next day. Tom van der Linden on his Youtube channel Like Stories of Old (2022) dismissed the idea of life as a hero’s journey simply because the journey is linear and that there can only be one hero. This is a complete misinterpretation. We go on a journey every day (the word “journey” comes from the French journée; i.e. day). By descending into chaos each day to rescue my father the Good King while being infused with that same feminine life-giving chaos, I live the journey. The “I” of today becomes “God, the Father” of tomorrow. In that sense, I am God, and I save the king.
Solving the Crisis of Men
I closed Part III with a mention of the crisis of infantile men, which I see as the root of the problems that most feminists are up in arms about. These are men (men-children, rather) who fail to live as heroes of their own story. Instead of upward development, they stagnate in routines, becoming more cowardly with each day, hiding behind the protection of a society built by heroes of the past. In a real sense, they know they are not living up to their potential, and they suffer in resentful jealousy, a hell of regrets made worse each time they blame others for the suffering life imposes, doomed to remain there until they accept the responsibility of turning that suffering into something productive. They walk around with a chip on their shoulder, looking for a fight because they’ve got something to prove. Too cowardly to test themselves against real challenges, they exert whatever power they have acquired (usurped) on those whom they are certain they can push around. They are the petty tyrants of the bureaucracy and the corporate office. They are the source of the idea of the ideal woman as weak and helpless, and they are the ones who use their advantage of physical strength to silence her when she points out his insufficiency.
Though Johnson (2014) was wrong to dismiss the role of individual transformation in social change, it would be wrong to dismiss the role of cultural influence. What little of the ideal of the hero was left in Christianity as living in the image of Christ by the onset of the twentieth century, it is almost certainly gone now. Whether Christian or heathen, most of us lack reliable guides for how to live. For every pop culture hero story, there are 10 more that worship the decadent values of power over others, revenge, utopia, or simply the lack of values (nihilistic hedonism). No more than about 10% of men are irredeemable psychopaths who need to be locked up. There is no known treatment for psychopathy (Hare, 1999; De Brito et al., 2021). But I would guess that at least 50% of men, likely much more, in Western society are psychologically infantile. If we are to survive as a culture (and in so doing, solve the problem feminists like to call “patriarchy”), we must find a way to redeem these men.
Just as Tartt’s (1992) Greek students underwent a spiritual purification before their Bacchanal, men need to learn the discipline of such purification. They must learn how to control themselves and be resilient when tossed into a world of chaos. (I’m focusing on men here for obvious reasons, but I would love to see all of this apply to women as well.) That’s why I’m a proponent of compulsory military service. Johnny Harris (2023) recently revealed the magic of Swiss gun culture to a gun-loving American audience. Not only is military service compulsory in Switzerland, but all adult men are required to maintain a rifle at home and be prepared to defend their homes. In the U.S., the right of gun ownership comes with no responsibility, and there is no common experience of learning how to use a firearm. In the U.S., men hide behind their guns while remaining infantile and fearful. In Switzerland, men seem to say, “I see you, my brother, and I have nothing to prove to you because we have already proven ourselves in the crucible when we stood eye to eye with the Dragon of Chaos and did not blink.” Such military training, a few months of basic training would suffice, could be a rite of passage, an initiation to adulthood when one must transition from being a protected child into a protector.
I learned the term “rite of passage” in middle school, and I didn’t understand it then. I still don’t know if my culture has any common rites of passage worthy of the name. School has been so watered down that it is hardly a test of any virtue, and the U.S. doesn’t even have a leaving exam. Even the few “coming of age” ceremonies that exist (e.g. bar/bat mitzvah, quinciñera) are not tests but celebrations. This is a problem. We need rites of passage, difficult tests of competence that symbolically confirm the initiate as a full member of society. Without them, most are doomed to remain in adolescent limbo between child and adult for most of their lives. Austria has compulsory state service; one can choose either military or civil service. I learned of this when I met a young Austrian in Poland doing civil service. Encouraging such foreign service is a great way to test the ability of young adults to make order out of the chaos of a foreign culture. Simply backpacking around Southeast Asia can be a transformative experience, but it can also be a series of parties until the child runs home to mommy and daddy. Having some sort of responsibility and a fixed term contract would require making the transition from visitor to resident of the host country.
So yes, my solution to patriarchy is more cultural strictures and more unattainable idols, not fewer. A strengthening of social masculinity, not its destruction, is the solution to patriarchy and what will create the space for femininity to flourish.
God save the king
To make this widespread in our culture, to have continual reminders of our role as hero, we need symbols. Symbols are something we can project our inner world onto. A good symbol is one that encourages us to live up to our higher selves. A bad symbol is one that encourages us to give into our demons. Donald Trump is a symbol of the worst in us, a cardboard cutout onto which the angry and resentful can project their anger and resentment, to be validated in their toxic attitudes. The Left has no shortage of such symbols either. Any of the Woke authors mentioned in my comparison of Wokeism and Marxism will do. A nation needs a symbol outside of the downward pull of populism. In the United States, the Founding Fathers had long served this role. In Europe, there is a different approach.
I believe we need a symbol of a Good King that reminds us of the protective society that we ought to be grateful to have inherited and that we have a responsibility to maintain and improve for future generations. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that many of the freest societies in the world, where people are entrusted with managing themselves, are constitutional monarchies. I love that Sweden has a king. I just wish he’d stop giving interviews. I don’t want him to be human; I want him to be a symbol of Swedish society as defined by that society.
There is a commonly played clip of the day the previous king, King Gustaf VI Adolf died. A royal serviceman appears at the doors of the hospital, the crowd is quiet, and he announces with perfect composure and perfect speech: “King Gustaf VI Adolf has today, Saturday the fifteenth of September 1973 at 20:35, calm and still, died.” A few moments later, the king’s grandson, Crown Prince Carl Gustaf walks out of the hospital into a crowd of reporters. He turns back for a moment, waiting for his sister. He looks blankly into the crowd, and someone shouts, “Leve kungen!” Long live the king. The crowd erupts, “Hurra! Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!”
The moment nearly brings me to tears. It is a perfect symbolic representation of culture. Though we mortal humans pass through its structure, that structure – immortal but only kept alive by our living within it – persists. Though we perish, the world is not darkness. There is goodness and an order to help us navigate the chaos of an ever-changing world. In that moment, Crown Prince Carl Gustaf became King Carl XVI Gustaf. Everyone knew what needed to happen next, and a courageous individual announced the arrival of the new king. It is by mastery of such cultural traditions that we prepare ourselves to confront the world and build the next culture for the next generation. More than that, we build our culture every day. Each day, we the heroes live the stories that will become tomorrow’s Gods.
And so, to the decadent who would smash it all to bits, I say, “God save the king.”
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Geoffrey S. DeSena 
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