Why You Can't Argue with an Orc

What motivates an orc? I wonder about it. Not that it keeps me up much at night, but then hardly anything will keep me awake for long.

Wife: “There’s a tornado coming!”

Me: “Wake me up if it hits us.”

Anyway, back to the orcs who, granted, look upon humans as a high protein food source, yet I tend to think that if a few hundred cows armed themselves and took over a fort somewhere I’d forget about them and find one that wouldn’t put up a fight for my burger. It’s more than that with the orcs. There’s something about people that just rubs an orc the wrong way.

Orcs are creatures born of grievance and hatred. They were not created; they were a creation perverted. The orc is a derivative being, not able to be true and genuine, for to be true it would have turn into something else. The story goes that Melkor took his noble elf captives deep underground away from their beloved starlight, tortured, twisted, and manipulated them until their shining beauty was a dark hideousness.

You are of your father the Devil, and you want to carry out your father’s desires. He was a murderer from the beginning and has not stood in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he tells a lie, he speaks from his own nature, because he is a liar and the father of liars. Yet because I tell you the truth, you do not believe Me. -- John 8:44,45

It’s enough to make one wonder if there be orcs among us still. You see it in the suicide-vest Muslims, certainly, but you also see it in the liberation-theology Christian, the wacky militant atheist, in the abortion-loving feminist, the America-hating left, and the self-loathing Jew. Anything that reminds them of what they should have been must be destroyed.

Orcs were repulsed by light and cleanliness and beauty because it recalled to that tiny point of light in their darkened minds what they had once been. The twisting begins with hating the one who is abusing and torturing me, who is unjust and cruel to me. But it does not end there. Once hatred and bitterness take root, the poison spreads and defiles everything it touches. Soon, my grievance is not so much with the devil that torments me as with God who delivered me into the devil’s hand. In fact, if He is that kind of a God, why should I not willing serve my tormentor and get back at the One who abandoned me?

The blackness of the abyss looks inviting. I want to dive into the darkness. I would do anything to extinguish that one flickering speck of light that just refuses to go out. If someone speaks of God to me, I want to silence them. It feeds that horrible spark. If they speak with words, I will expose the darkness and filth within them and call them “hypocrites”. They are no better than I am. If they speak by their lives and their values, I will mock them and seek to make them ashamed of their very goodness. Why should they have righteousness, peace and joy when others do not? Do they not care about others?

And yet I have a dread, a dread that is as certain as death. Even at the bottom, the very blackest bottom of that pit into which I gaze so longingly, I know even there, especially there, this spark will not go out. The fire will burn on to torture me forever.

This abominable little speck of light will be indeed a lake of fire.