“I don’t really care, Margaret. I don’t want this person in my country,” declared the newly elected Vice President of the United States in a recent “Face the Nation” interview. In a discussion about illegal immigration, journalist Margaret Brennan attempted to frame the debate with needless hypotheticals, but the Vice President’s response cut through the noise. This statement was not just a momentary flashpoint—it was the Rebel Yell of a resurgent right.
For years, the right has been censored, deplatformed, and economically pressured into silence. Dissenting voices have been labeled “racist,” “fascist,” and “bigoted”— all while being blacklisted from public discourse. Opposition was never met with debate but with suppression. But Elon kicked open the floodgates of free speech. In the flood, the Mainstream Media lost all control.
The Overton Window shifted dramatically, and with it, the entire landscape of political discourse. The old morality—the one that rewarded the sycophantic rejection of natural affections—collapsed.
The deity of this progressive cult of irrationality crumbled under the weight of its own contradictions. The high priests of this God-hating death cult, once revered as arbiters of justice, were unmasked as nothing more than scavengers—“circling patiently, waiting for the feast that history had always laid out for them when civilizations grew weak.”
They demonstrated time and again that they don’t love their own. They ignore the natural order of love and obligation a person has towards those in his own family, community, and nation above an abstract love for the world. Their rejection of kinship and tradition is not enlightenment—it’s a moral failure. A man who feels nothing for his own is, by definition, a psychopath. And a movement that celebrates such detachment cannot expect to be taken seriously when it speaks of compassion.
The failure of their war against natural affections is not just philosophical—it’s empirical too. A viral study mapping moral allocation by ideology made this abundantly clear.
Conservatives direct their deepest concern toward their families, communities, and nation. Leftists, in contrast, extend their moral obligations outward to abstract causes, prioritizing distant strangers, even non-human entities, over those closest to them.
At its most foundational, this truth will be the left’s undoing. The deeper reality conservatives must internalize is this: every accusation of transgression hurled against them—from “homophobe” to “xenophobe,” from “racist” to “transphobe”—stems not from moral clarity but from a pathological rejection of natural affection. This is why Trump’s movement was always more than Bernie Sanders-style populism. It tapped into something Lewis would probably call “deeper magic,” the magic that traces back to the dawn of time.
Pundits are correct in sensing the New Regime as an epistemological rupture within the GOP. The old GOP, obsessed with neoliberal platitudes, is gone. In its place stands a new force, one that recognizes the necessity of hierarchy, order, and loyalty. At the heart of this shift is a concept older than the modern nation-state—the Ordo Amoris or “order of loves.”. This ancient principle, recently thrust back into public discourse by Senator J.D. Vance, gained renewed prominence when he invoked it in a widely circulated tweet:
Just google ‘ordo amoris.’ Aside from that, the idea that there isn’t a hierarchy of obligations violates basic common sense. Does Rory really think his moral duties to his own children are the same as his duties to a stranger who lives thousands of miles away? Does anyone?
The fact that a sitting vice-president would ever quote St. Augustine in the original Latin is unimaginable. Defended by figures like St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, this doctrine affirms that love must be properly ordered. Some affections must take precedence over others.
Scripture confirms this hierarchy too. In Leviticus 19:17, we’re commanded: “Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart: thou shalt in any wise rebuke thy neighbor, and not suffer sin upon him.” This is not a call to indiscriminate tolerance, but a clear obligation toward those near to us—to correct, to rebuke, to care enough to intervene.
Likewise, in Luke 14:26, Christ challenges us with hard words: “If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.”
Far from denying familial duty, Christ is teaching the supremacy of our love for Him—a love so total that even our deepest earthly attachments must, by comparison, seem like hatred. But this radical prioritization of divine love does not cancel natural obligations. As 1 Timothy 5:8 makes unmistakably clear, “But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.”
These verses do not contradict one another—they reveal a hierarchy. Christ commands that our love for Him be so great that all other loves pale in comparison, yet He also demands that we care for our own. A man who neglects his household, his people, and his community is worse than an infidel.
Modern liberalism denies this hierarchy. It preaches an indiscriminate, borderless love—one that sees no distinction between kin and stranger, neighbor and foreigner, citizen and outsider. This is not virtue. It’s disordered. A man who treats every human as interchangeable does not love greatly—he loves no one at all. He is not virtuous. He is, in fact, a psychopath.
Julius Evola recognized this moral decay in Revolt Against the Modern World: “Modern man is a diminished type of being, a degenerate, but he believes himself to be superior because he has lost the sense of what he has lost.”
By embracing an unnatural, egalitarian ethic, modernity has fostered disconnected individuals who claim to love the world but neglect their own families and communities. The globalist delusion didn’t create a more loving world—it eroded the very foundation of real love.
Christ Himself taught that our first commitments are to those whom God has placed in our care. Loving one’s own family and people is not exclusionary—it’s the essence of ordered affection.
The alternative is not a world of universal love but a world of emptiness, alienation, and decay. A love so diluted that it ceases to mean anything at all. The return to Ordo Amoris is not merely a theological necessity—it is a civilizational imperative.
