On December 8, 2020, a curtain was pulled back to reveal the “Council for Inclusive Capitalism,” a bold initiative birthed under the moral banner of the Vatican and the spiritual guidance of Pope Francis. Picture this: a coalition of titans—financial moguls, corporate magnates, and global influencers—uniting with a mission to reshape the world’s economic engine.
These aren’t small players. The Council’s leadership, dubbed “The Guardians,” includes heavyweights overseeing $10.5 trillion in assets, companies worth over $2.1 trillion in market capitalization, and a workforce of 200 million spanning 163 countries. That’s not a meeting of local entrepreneurs—that’s a gathering of the world’s economic architects.
Their stated aim? To “harness the potential of the private sector” for a more “inclusive and sustainable” capitalism. Noble words, right? But let’s pause and peel back the layers. What does “harness” really mean here? It’s a term that evokes control, a bridle on a wild horse. And “sustainable”—a buzzword so polished it gleams—might not be as innocent as it sounds. In English, “sustainable development” rolls off the tongue like a promise of progress. Yet, if we dig into its linguistic roots or translate it elsewhere, it could just as easily mean “controlled development” or “restrained growth.” Suddenly, it’s less about thriving and more about containment. Who’s doing the controlling, and who’s being restrained?
The Guardians, meeting yearly with Pope Francis and a cardinal overseer, have pledged action on climate change, green energy, and sustainability—issues that sound virtuous until you ask: Who defines the terms? Who benefits? The Council’s founder, Lynn Forester de Rothschild, ties this effort to a lineage of influence that’s hard to ignore. Rothschild—a name synonymous with wealth and power—pairs with the Vatican’s moral authority, and the plot thickens. Are we witnessing a sincere push for a better world, or a strategic play to redirect the private sector’s energy into a tightly governed system favoring global elites?
Now, enter Pope Francis, a Jesuit by training. For those who love a good historical twist, the Jesuits aren’t just priests in robes—they’re a centuries-old order with a reputation for intellect, discipline, and, some say, covert influence. Could this be the moment they step from the shadows to steer humanity toward a “new world order”? The phrase “sustainable development” starts to feel like a code—a stand-in for something bigger, something like “Novus Ordo Seclorum,” the Latin etched on the U.S. dollar, meaning “A New Order for the Ages.” Coincidence? Or a clue?
The United Nations looms large in this tale, wielding its “Agenda 21″—a blueprint signed in 1992 by virtually every nation, including Russia, just as the Soviet Union’s ashes settled. Today, it’s rebranded as the “2030 Agenda,” with its Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) promising to end poverty and hunger by 2030. Who could argue with that? But the devil’s in the details. How do you eradicate poverty without upending the systems that define wealth? The answer, critics say, lies in a radical overhaul: stripping away private property (except for the elite, naturally), crushing small businesses, rationing resources down to the last crumb, and locking people into designated zones. It’s a vision of equality through restriction, sold as salvation.
But let’s rewind further—way back to the 17th century, to Paraguay, where the Jesuits ran a fascinating experiment. Picture “reductions”—self-contained communes of Guarani Indians, ruled by Jesuit priests with an iron grip masked as benevolence. These weren’t chaotic villages; they were engineered societies. A central square with a church, surrounded by huts, all encircled by moats and walls to keep the world out—and the people in. Sentries guarded the gates, passes were required, and life ticked along like clockwork: bells for prayer, bells for work, bells for sleep, even bells signaling when couples could fulfill “marital duties.” The Indians farmed communal fields—rice, tobacco, cotton—while personal plots were granted but never owned. Private property? Banned. Trade? Forbidden. All wealth flowed to the Jesuits, who raked in millions exporting the fruits of this controlled labor.
This wasn’t chaos—it was order, a prototype of “sustainable development.” The Indians had food and safety, but freedom? That was sacrificed on the altar of stability. The Jesuits blended Catholicism with local superstitions, keeping the masses compliant while projecting divine authority. Two priests ran each reduction: one for souls, one for systems. Sound familiar? It’s a microcosm of what some see in today’s global agenda—centralized control dressed up as progress.
Fast-forward to the 20th century, and you could argue the Soviet Union under Stalin was another test run. No private property, no free speech, minimal consumption—and yet, a population conditioned to embrace it, even die for it. These weren’t failures; they were rehearsals. Now, the stage is global, and the script is “sustainable development”—a term that’s everywhere, from UN podiums to corporate boardrooms. But what if it’s just “new world order” with better branding?
The Jesuits, some claim, are the puppet masters. Beyond the cassocks, they’ve allegedly woven a tapestry of secret societies, think tanks, and supranational bodies—think WHO, WEF, IMF—embedding their influence across centuries. Their oath binds them to a mission, and their reach is subtle but vast. Underestimate them, and you might miss the forest for the trees.
So, where does this leave us on March 21, 2025? The Council for Inclusive Capitalism, the 2030 Agenda, the Jesuit legacy—they’re threads in a tapestry that’s still being woven. Is it a conspiracy to enslave humanity under a green banner, or a genuine stab at fixing a broken world? Maybe it’s both. The dollar says “Novus Ordo Seclorum”—a new order for the ages. The question is: Whose order, and at what cost?
