Duality

I am obsessed with being true to myself. Authenticity is my watchword; the standard by which I measure every action and choice. Yet, if as the Scripture contends, I am by my very nature a sinner, then by simply being authentic in this manner I can never attain anything more than the rank of a common wrech.



If only it were that simply--prolific baseness or unattainable glory, yet the Scripture also contends that I have another nature, or more accurately, purpose that pierces through me like a steady steam of sunlight through a window pane heating it with its refractive touch. Consequently, the only authentic act is to become totally translucent and clear myself of anything that would obscure or diminish the light.



Which is the truth and which is the lie? For which would I be wasting myself in a pointless pursuit that was either too far beneath me or too far above me? Which is the true hope and which is the false one?

Night Vision

Jeremy made an interesting observation last night about misery and its desire for company. It is not, as many suppose, that those who are 'miserable' want to bring others down with them but rather that those in the darkness just want to know someone else is there. What need do I have for someone who does not know what I know and does not see what I see? I have no desire to forcibly bring another into my reality just so they can scoff at my experiences; what I need is to be reassured of is that those experiences are not exclusive to me.

But is it then the case of the blind leading the blind? I think not. Those of us who are practiced at navigating through the darkness have acquired what I might call a type of night vision. However, our ability to see does not come from some artificial source of light, instead it emanates from within us. My eyes have become quite accustomed to this peculiar illumination and I am not sure that I could stand and stomach the light by which everyone else perceives the world. Despite this, there is no doubt that I will keep searching for it.

Bedside Manner

A few posts ago I wondered if I would return to Merton or not; I have and with my return has come a resurgence of sensitivity to my now defunct calling. Merton in a paraphrasing of 1 Corinthians 15:50 explains that, "God sometimes gives Himself to us where He seems to be taken away."

I have drawn the parallel between my current life outside the church and the time both Jesus and especially Paul spent in the desert, but it didn't quite fit. In both cases they were actively and consciously preparing for their respective missions whereas I, especially in the beginning, had not such thought or goal in mind. Even now the future seems unclear in this respect; it has not so much been a dark night of the soul as it is has been a silent void for me, without feeling rather than the intense pain often associated with spiritual longing.

Could it be that even through my coma, He has been speaking to me, repairing my soul like a faithful friend by my bedside? The idea intrigues me. I am so compartmentalized sometimes and fail to see movement that lies beyond my two eyes. I still don't know but the thought that I somehow remain in the hands of the Master even though I have left the field and turned in my tools is comforting. At the risk of sounding Calvinistic, I have heard it said that God does not remove His calling from us but rather we remove ourselves from His calling. He does not retract; we deny. For now, I am thoroughly convinced of at least half of that statement.

Faith, Hope and Love

We had to put our cat down on Thanksgiving. We noticed her limping on her front leg around mid morning which was odd because only days before we had brought her to the vet because she was limping on her back leg. We were unsure as to what to do but after it became clear that she was not herself we took her in only to find out that what she was experiencing was a blood clot. The vet withheld her diagnosis until she was able to conduct a few tests and x-rays. When she brought us back into the room to discuss the results, we knew it was bad but it came as a shock that the vet had found two tumors in Chyna's lungs. The prognosis was bleak; to continue her life would only mean more pain. It was a heart wrenching decision but Chyna was already gone. She was in agony and the only humane thing to do was to look her in the eyes and stroke her as she was put to sleep.

I could barely hold it together. I was sobbing uncontrollably, my chest heaving up and down as a folded myself into the corner of the small "dying room" they placed us in for the procedure. Jess was upset but reassured Chyna that we loved her as she stroked her gently. When I could stand, I hovered around her, reaching out every now and again to run my thumb along the top of her head as I had done countless times before yet she did not respond by purring rather she stared, wide-eyed back at us from within the blanket that was wrapped around her.

Among Jessica's many reassurances of love and longing, she told Chyna that she would see her in Heaven several times. My initial reaction was not one of cynicism or disbelief but one of hope and with that response, I began to reflect on the difference between hope and faith. I concluded that faith is having the belief that such and such is true without the ability to definitively prove it while hope is the desire for such and such to be true without the ability to believe it.

I hope there is a Heaven where all sorrow and suffering will be replaced with joy but I stop short of believing it exists. I want nothing more than to be reassured that my mother and even my cat are consciously frolicking in paradise; it is hard to think of them in any other way because they still exist in my mind; therefore part of me rationalizes that they must exist somewhere. But it is a unassailable placebo, selfishly constructed for my own continued delusion rather than for their ultimate destiny. At least, that is my cynical assessment but perhaps hope is a step towards faith rather than a crutch for you before you can put your faith in something, you must be able to imagine it.

Too Much Time on My Hands

I was contacted by the professor in charge of my doctoral program at Drexel that I passed my qualifying exam. My dubious efforts on the offending essay I spoke about in the last post actually garnered me a 'pass with honors,' the highest grade one can receive for an answer. Despite the spotlight that the instance cast on me and my questionable pursuits, now that they are over I will calmly return to the path I was on and slip back into the stupor--that is, until the next detour.

With the passing of the test, I have a little more time on my hands. Really I don't, I should be working on my proposal, what I mean to say is that I have more freedom to choose what I do with my time. Some of that freedom will undoubtedly be used to 'fritter away the hours in a offhand way,' but that goes without saying. The better question to ponder is what will I do with my time when I am energized and motivated.

People normally think of motivation as specific but for me, motivation often takes the form of a general mandate, an increase in the DEFCON level if you will, to improve myself, to move myself further down the road but that motivation never includes an definite destination. Its like the old phrase, 'you don't have to go home, but you can't say here.' Motivation is synonymous with irritation for me. Sometimes that irritation leads to healing and sometimes to more pointless suffering.

That is why I writing this morning and why I went to the Evangelical Lutheran church last weekend (it was disappointing, an uncomfortable mixture of high church and contemporary elements, neither of which the congregation seemed to be much into), I want to be intentionally. But there are so many choices. Should I through myself into academia, business or back into Merton. At some level I believe and desire to be in all three, but such a course usually prevents me from doing any with much success. Good think I have a lot of time on my hands to contemplate it some more.

A Subtle Torture

I feel one of my turns coming on. Not a tumult but rather a distraction. I feel myself being pulled away. I know where this leads and yet I will inevitably follow it to its completion. Whereas before I could claim a genuine interest in the novelty of it now I am a regular player in this farce. I know it is pointless and yet I continue to play the fool.

I see greatness and know the power and passion associated with a life of meaning and hope but I feel nothing and choose instead banal distraction. I am a corpse without a burial, a sweaty tourist at the sacred altar. I have tossed my pearls to the swine then followed in after them only to become one of the herd, blinded by the filth that relentlessly clings to my eyes. It is my undoing; it is the culmination of my self-destructive will; it is my bed and I have no other momentary desire but to lie in it.

And yet I see the light piercing through the muck for I know what I am doing. Unlike the swine, I am not ignorant which perhaps relegates me an even greater depth than they for I, knowing that the present is fleeting, insist on living in it exclusively. Yes, and all this is true but for the slightest of irritations, what amounts to a persistent itch that never allows me to fall completely asleep. It is a subtle torture that is no doubt meant to revive me from my lethargy.

Near Failing Experience

I had one of these, just this past week. It was during my qualifying exam. I got to the last question for the morning session and then panicked. The question was different from the one I was lead to believe was going to be on the exam and the prospect of reconstructing an answer with the amount of time left on the clock was overwhelming.

I say near failure, but there is a very real chance I will fail on this question. After the time was up and the immediate panic subsided, embarrassment and doubt crept in. I felt as if everyone else close to me has found their niche and are slowly but surely moving toward recognition and meaning while I stumble from project to project like a frightened animal attempting to escape its enclosure only to realize that there is always another barrier to go through. There is no freedom outside these enclosures; the only freedom to be had is found within the place I am in—whichever place it is I decide to stop running. Escape is not only useless it is unnecessary for freedom.

I can’t believe that I have turned out to be one of those people—a mundane, track-house residing commuter who believes his life holds greater meaning than the brand of furniture he is able to buy. So I never think I’ll be good enough, I don’t feel loved, my past failures continue to haunt me and I am afraid of commitment. It all been said before, this pathetically hackneyed dribble. I am ashamed of myself; it has to my perception which is flawed because I’ve tried to better myself, take more degrees, professionally manage my money, even to the point of perfecting a firmer handshake and the confident look in the eye when I meet people, but none of this is leading anywhere. It’s me who is the problem and the only way to avoid the problem is to avoid being me. A very real part of being me is being continually mired in these thoughts and conditions.