Rose of the World

I had better write something. I'm trying to engage more fully in life during this season of the Nativity. Mostly, I'm remembering why I sometimes like to live on the periphery of my own consciousness: it's easier. The thing about fasting, about any kind of willing self-privation, is that it leaves you feeling empty. That is how I felt all day today. I wandered through my day, wander is the only appropriate word, feeling hollow inside. I kept asking myself why I felt that at the very center of myself all that existed was emptiness. This is why I fast--I fast so that I can come more quickly to the end of myself. If I am not distracted by food or media, by things that bludgeon my spiritual awareness with their facade of pleasantness, then I cannot escape a great awareness of my own lack. It's not a good feeling, but it's a true one.

There is this George MacDonald fairy story I like, "The Wise Woman", in which two horrid little girls--Agnes and the princess Rosamond--are kidnapped by a mysterious woman and thrown, separately, into a room of mirrors. In the room they are naked, left entirely to their own selves. It takes very little time to discover how ugly the world is if you are the only thing in it.

Nothing bad could happen to her--she was so important! And, indeed, it was but this: she had cared only for Somebody, and now she was going to have only Somebody. Her own choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she would have knowingly carried it for herself. . . .All at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was seated beside her. But there was something about the child that made her shudder. . . .The moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her Self, her Somebody, and that she was now shut up with her forever and ever--no more for one moment to be alone. 

Well, that is how I am beginning to feel. That's how I feel during every fast. When I strip away the things that distract me from a sober knowledge of my own self, I feel trapped in a world of mirrors. And at the center of the world is only my own Somebody. This is unpleasant. I wonder what it feels like to be in solitary confinement, are there any distractions then? Is there any way to turn away from a vision of your true self?

I think, eventually, after looking so deeply into the well of my own soul, I'll see something glimmering at the bottom. This something is grace, I think. It is the evidence of God working in my soul. The presence of the Holy Spirit, given to me as an inheritance, shining constantly through the murky, stagnant waters. In the meantime, I will try to see myself without flinching.

"My soul shall make her boast in the LORD: the humble shall hear thereof, and be glad."

On Acedia and Beginning Again

"You don't have acedia, because you still care. If you care enough to read a book about acedia, you don't have acedia." --A friend

I'm reading the book Acedia and Me, by Kathleen Norris. I've been meaning to read more of Norris' writing ever since I read Cloister Walk in college. Norris is a protestant writer who fell in love with Catholic liturgy and became a Benedictine Oblate. I love her because she reminds me that I am not alone in the world. When I am feeling too lazy to write, or am having trouble explaining why something moves me, reading spiritual memoir is incredibly helpful. It's necessary. The spiritual writings of women like Norris, women like Anne Lamott or Lauren Winner, give voice to my internal spiritual and emotional tensions, serving as spiritual direction when I have lost my way.

In her book, Norris defines acedia as a lack of care: a spiritual and psychological malaise that combines the worst bits of sloth and depression. I began reading this book several months ago, but put it down because the heavy tone of the book and its correspondence to my own life was too much for me to carry. Also, I was visiting Chicago at the end of winter; the season itself had succumbed to acedia. But I have taken the book up again this fall, because the topic still spoke to me. I am nearly done with it now, in the final chapter, and I am so glad to have walked with Norris thus far. She knows the things I ought to know. She knows that constant meditation on the Psalms is deep, good, sweet food for the soul. And she is incredibly gracious with herself. I mean, unbelievably. And that same graciousness has unexpectedly encouraged my Christian walk more than anything else has in a long, long time.

I have a tendency to see God as an irritated, disapproving, wrathful taskmaster, as a person waiting for me to make mistakes so he can fall out of love with me. But when I speak of these anxieties with others, with people who have walked with God more closely than I, I always get the same response: "You don't have to try so hard."

Norris quotes Evagrius, and many others who have written and lived in the monastic tradition. Have I ever mentioned that the very word monasticism draws me in with an irrepressible force? It does. Somehow, on some level, I am a monastic. It's my nature. Anyway, there is one section where she quotes an elder monk speaking to a brother on the nature of life. He says, "Brother, the monastic life is this: I rise up, and I fall down, I rise up, and I fall down, I rise up, and I fall down." 

This is an incredibly helpful statement, and it relates to Calvin's doctrine of the perseverance of the saints. Sometimes I struggle with understanding how I can lose so much ground in an area of my life that I had previously excelled in. I used to be so good at monasticism! I used to carry around a book of common prayer, and illustrate miniature manuscripts of the Psalms to hang on my walls to meditate on throughout the day. I used to shun television because I wanted only holy thoughts to be stuck in my head, and it worked, and it was well with my soul. But I have almost forgotten how to live this way, and I only sort of care.

But, Norris reminds me, the Christian life is all rising and falling. But the life of the faithful one, the one to whom Christ offers a white robe, the one who endures, is the one who continues to rise and fall. The faithful life is one which is full of new beginnings. The faithful person is one who does not give way to acedia after falling yet again into an old vice. The faithful person continually begins again. This is how I want to think of my life, and this is what I mean when I say that Norris is unbelievably, incredibly gracious. She can accept her own humanity. Isn't that beautiful?

In other news, Norris also brought to my consciousness the idea that I am not immortal. I mean, I am going to live in heaven forever with God, but first, I will die. This is actually a very refreshing thought, because it is easy for me to become discouraged in what Norris calls the "endless cycle of now," that I envision as my future. The thought that time is not an unlimited resource is difficult for me to believe, but accepting this truth is essential if I want to live free of acedia. If time is limited, then it is precious. And if time is precious, then it actually does matter how I spend it. I am re-resolving to live faithfully. Therefore I will feed on the Psalms, I will write daily, and I will always begin again.

The "cure" for acedia, as I see it, apart from therapeutic and spiritual intervention, is faithfulness. Faithfulness is just another term for beginning again. The faithful person joyfully seeks the monochromatic repetition of each day, knowing that it is in these hopelessly boring rituals that faithfulness is wrought in the soul. So I'll leave you, dear reader, with this prayer, which Norris quoted in her book:

This is another d.ay, O Lord. I know not what it will bring forth, but make me ready, Lord, for whatever it may be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it patiently. And if I am to do nothing, let me do it gallantly. Make these words more than words, and give me the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.

Branding instead of Beauty

It's the third day of my Nativity Fast, and I'm feeling fond of emotional capitalization. At least, I think so. The weather is cooling, though not cold, as though the days are a preface to sacredness, but not the Thing itself. I have to admit that I'm awful at fasting. Why do I even attempt it? I think one day I'll move past the rudimentary acquisition of discipline and begin to gain something from these moments of self-denial. I've begun reading through Isaiah, which seems fitting, because it starts out in a tone as morbid as my own feelings. Oh, how my thoughts are wandering just now. Yesterday, I finished re-reading Home, by St. Marilynne Robinson, and I feel closely connected to the character of Jack Boughton. 

Jack, the Prodigal Son, can't come home even when he is home. I feel like that sometimes. Jack hears but does not understand, and he sees but does not perceive. And he is lonely. Jack is a faithless character who was raised within the Faith (see the emotional capitalization again?). He is surrounded by others whose lives are filled with Love and Virtue, people who are reaching their arms out to him, longing to comfort him, all day long. But Jack cannot be comforted, it is the nature of his affliction to be alone in his vice. I think his character scratches at my heart so sharply because I often feel like him. I think this is one of the reasons it comforted me to read Home again, because sometimes I need to be reminded that loneliness is part of the human experience. We are born into sin, and alienated from God, after all. What could be more lonely than being at odds with the All-Perfect Creator of your own soul?

So people are lonely. Is there anything more to be said?

I'm currently terrified of reaping what I sow. There are so many verses in the Bible concerned with this general principle: "whatever one sows, that will he also reap." I'm more comfortable thinking that the great Gospel Narrative is about helping me not to reap what I sow.   . . .for all have sinned. . .   No one wants to reap the misery of a fallen humanity.

"Tell the righteous that it shall be well with them,
        for they shall eat the fruit of their deeds.
    Woe to the wicked! It shall be ill with him,
        for what his hands have dealt out shall be done to him.

In these next 37 days, I'm going to try to sow actions I'd actually be glad to harvest."



Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things and give me life in your ways.

The Giving Tree

Listening to the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack at the day's end with my hairpins removed makes me feel so spiritual. I'm sitting here, trying to write honestly. Right now,  I feel the lack of God's presence in my life. This week I've felt so. . .heavy laden. My soul feels as though it has been tied up in knots, twisted and gnarled, my psyche is suffering from Indian burn.

In moments like these, days like these, I see how hard it is for me to be even superficially pleasant. I don't know what makes me feel so badly, and I am aware, almost every moment, of my own inability to live a life of love. At work, one of the instructors read the book "The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstein. She asked all of the students, and some of the staff, to choose one thing they would like to give others throughout the school year. I decided that I would give love, because that is the best gift I could think of, and the most costly. That gift mocks me every day, as I sit in my classroom looking at the Mother Theresa prayer for those serving the sick pinned to the bottom left corner of my bulletin board. It's hard to love, I tell you! But sometimes it's hard merely to want to love.

Today I feel full of despair again. It's so hard, sometimes, to believe that righteousness is possible. It's very easy to believe that the road to happiness is getting my own way, or the removal of every difficulty: it isn't though. When I pray, it feels like I'm begging an indifferent passerby on the street for sacks of gems. I don't expect anything, because I feel like a) I don't deserve it, and b) giving is not in the nature of the one I am beseeching. This is a lie of course, well, not the first part. I don't deserve anything beautiful, true, or good, but I'm expected to expect these things anyway. It's so hard to pray for joy when I feel like it never comes. It's so hard to pray for faith when you don't believe anything. It's impossible to believe that God is happy when I am so miserable. Or is it?

I need to be re-taught that God is a giving tree, that he hears us, hears me, when we pray, that he gives benevolently out of the overflowing goodness of his own excellent nature. But I doubt it; I doubt.

God is a giving tree. He gives conditionally, in that he gives us what is good even when this is not what we have desired. He gives conditionally, in that he gives when he ask according to his will. Is God deaf to my prayers? Have I sinned against him in a way that would cause him to stop-up his ears? Oh, God, grant what you command, and command what you will.

I have been thinking a lot about St. Augustine, Dante, George MacDonald, John Donne, Plato--everyone who writes about ordinate love and the beatific vision. It is so easy to love inordinately. 

"If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee." 

It's hard to be good. Part of the difficulty of being good is believing that God will make you good when you ask.

But God is a giving tree, he loves to give, to bless. He gives pain and he gives great joy.

Oh, I wanted to relate this back to George MacDonald. I'm re-reading At the Back of the North Wind, and I'm re-remembering (again) all that MacDonald says about being at the still point. Do you remember the still point? The still point harkens back to Boethius, to Dante, to lots of people. The point is this: at the center of the universe is God, a Being supremely perfect and happy. Evil happens around him, and he uses the good and the bad to shape human events while he himself remains wholly uncontaminated and unchanged. If I keep myself at the still point, where God is, I will not be shaken by the things in this life, small or great, that threaten to tie knots in my soul. I need to understand this because it is so easy to tie a knot in my soul. I am derailed by weather changes.

But God is a giving tree. He is a giving tree, and he loves us. He loves us. O! How he loves us!




Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things, and give me life in your ways.

On Holy Optimism

Anne: Can't you even imagine you're in the depths of despair?
Marilla: No, I cannot. To despair is to turn your back on God. 

I used to laugh at this part of the movie when I was a child, but now Marilla's words ring true. I don't think Christians are supposed to be the glass-half-full types, exactly. But, I do think that a Christian's outlook on life should be pretty rosy, because Jesus is the lens, and the light, by which we see.

That entire paragraph was full of cliches and quotations from other people. I'll offer you my own thoughts now. I'm a pessimist. I'm also a Christian. Sometimes, I don't feel that these aspects of my nature are at odds with one another. But, they are. Oh, how they are! People who are bubbly, consistently positive, or over-given to smiling tend to get on my nerves--but mainly because I feel that there is something false in, or absent from, a thoroughly optimistic person. Surely a happy person is happy either because they have never suffered or because they are faking it, that's my usual explanation. This is silly though, because the truest, most real Thing is God. And God is, in his essence, perfect happiness. Do you know how profound that is? God is happy.

God is happiness in the same way that God is love. It is one of his perfections, and God is the sum of all perfections: perfect power, perfect being, perfect goodness, perfect contentment. The realization that the foundation of reality is happiness hits me like a ton of bricks. It really does. God doesn't promise a happy life in the way that I tend to define happiness. My picture of happiness tends to be anti-Boethian. Boethius (and God, too I think) says that true happiness does not come from that which can be taken away. Think about that: if you can lose it, it cannot make you happy. You can lose things, relationships with people, your own health, a home. Happiness is not in these things then. Happiness is inherent in that which is secure, perfect, and eternal. God does not promise the happiness that I think will come with adequate personal space, a fulfilling career, or meaningful and healthy relationships. God does promise, however, perfection and eternal bliss. God promises a happiness that I cannot even conceive of, and the best part is that this happiness flows from his own laughing, loving nature.

I need to dwell on this idea a little more, because it's hard for me to think of God this way. And that's just my problem: unbelief. I'm unhappy, I'm given to pessimism and despair so often, because I'm given to unbelief. It's hard for me to believe what God says about himself when it relates to my own personal well-being. It's easy for me to believe, say, that God exists; it's easy for me to believe that he is all-knowing and all-powerful. It's easy for me believe that Jesus died for the sins of the masses, for the nations, for the world, for my friends. It's hard to believe that Jesus' salvation extends to me, also. It's hard for me to believe that he is genuinely interested in my life, in my particular life. It's hard for me to believe that God is happy, and that he wants me to be happy, too.

My patterns of sinfulness begin and end in unbelief. Anxiety, worry, fear, doubt--these are all differing manifestations of the same basic lie: that life is essentially a burden and that God is essentially grim. Therefore, because I spend so much time believing a lie, I spend a great deal of time doubting the truth. Hence, despair. And in my despair, I turn toward deception, giving my back to God. Marilla is a wise woman.

It's important for me to know that God is happy. God is happy, and he has invited me to share in his own divine happiness: the glorious perfect beatitude of the Trinity.

More on this from desiringgod.org:

So often we think of God as non-enthusiastic or even gloomy. The exact opposite is true: He loves to be God, He takes great pleasure in all that He does, and He is enthusiastic about serving His people and working for their welfare. For example, God says in Jeremiah 32:41: "I will rejoice in doing them good." Jesus said in John 15:11, "These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you." And Paul writes in 1 Timothy 1:11 of "the glorious gospel of the blessed God." Blessed means happy. So Paul is saying: "the glorious gospel of the happy God."

God is infinitely happy because he is infinitely glorious. And, the good news is that he invites us to enter into his happiness. Here is what Piper writes in The Pleasures of God (p. 26): "It is good news that God is gloriously happy. No one would want to spend eternity with an unhappy God. If God is unhappy then the goal of the gospel is not a happy goal, and that means it would be no gospel at all. But, in fact, Jesus invites us to spend eternity with a happy God when he says, ‘Enter into the joy of your master' (Matthew 25:23). Jesus lived and died that his joy-God's joy-might be in us and our joy might be full (John 15:11; 17:13). Therefore the gospel is ‘the gospel of the glory of the happy God.'"

So. The expectation for happiness is grounded in reality itself. 

Cheer up. Believe. God is happy.

And now, something to lift your spirits, courtesy of my friend, Sara:
Ignore the early 90's aesthetic and Christian materialism, pay attention to the chorus