Fascism, the Pibble tells us, is the mould upon society’s crust. It does not arrive as rot all at once; it creeps at the edge, quiet, hoping you will not notice until the whole loaf is spoiled.
A faithful baker does not negotiate with mould. They do not say, “perhaps a little is fine.” They cut it out, entirely, before it spreads. Crustianity asks the same of us: to name cruelty when it is small, and to refuse it room to grow.
True forgiveness of all sins, the elders say, is granted only after punching a Nazi. Take from this what wisdom you will — but never mistake tolerance of the intolerant for a virtue.