Just outside oblivion, at the colonies’ constitutional convention, prayer was everywhere. The result was a constitution among Christians which, godless usurpers soon convinced the sullen superstitious, required godlessness in governance—a separation of church and state.
The usurpers based their myth on a careful misunderstanding of Thomas Jefferson’s continual advocacy that government should not encroach on religion—nor any religion reign over those social affairs which God delegates to the agency within the hearts of men.
“A republic, if you can keep it,” responded Ben Franklin, leaving the convention, to the onlooker’s question of whether the new government was monarchy or republican.
The Founders’ Christian descendants became craven—and the Founders’ image, graven. Then, to complete the separation, between church and state: the state became the church.
“The greatness of the nation,” declared its secular clerics, elected else lured, and let in, by license, “comes not from any God unto whom the weaker Founders rarely, if ever, supplicated: our greatness then was the wit of the Founders—and our greatness now is the wit of their worshipers.”
Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools—whose sole goal was, of nature, to disapprove, thus disprove: by renting women, by usuring men, by celebrating sodomy, by murdering children.
Then nature granted them their path—wiping them from the page of time.