Wisdom: Come and fill me, O Spirit of Wisdom, and reveal to my soul the mysteries of heavenly things, in their exceeding greatness, power and beauty. Teach me to love them above and beyond all the passing joys and satisfactions of earth and to prefer your wisdom over the so-called wisdom of this world. Help me to grow in your wisdom, especially during temptations, trials, and all the daily challenges that I face. Amen.

Understanding: Come and fill me, O Spirit of Understanding, and enlighten my mind that I may accept and believe the mysteries of salvation and the truths of your kingdom in order to stay on the path to heaven and serve your kingdom in my daily life. Help me to discern what is evil, and enlighten me so that I may be holy here on earth and live forever in the light of your glory with a clear vision of you and the Father and the Son. Amen.

Counsel: Come and fill me, O Spirit of Counsel. Help me and guide me in all my ways, that I may always do your holy will. Incline my heart to prefer only what is good; turn it away from all that is evil, and direct me by the straight path of your commandments to that goal of eternal life for which I long. Amen.

Fortitude: Come and fill me, O Blessed Spirit of Fortitude. Protect my soul in times of trouble and adversity. Sustain my efforts in holiness, strengthen me in my weakness, and give me courage against all the assaults and temptations of my enemies, that I may not be overcome and separated from You, my God and greatest Good. Amen.

Knowledge: Come and fill me, O Blessed Spirit of Knowledge, and grant that I may perceive the will of the Father in all things, in every moment of every day. Give me an awareness of the pointlessness of earthly things and the ugliness of unholy desires, that I may stay pure in all my decisions and use the things of this world only if they bring you glory. Tell me what I need to know for my salvation and for the service of others. Amen.

Piety: Come and fill me, O Blessed Spirit of Piety. Possess my heart. Purify me. Humble me. Enkindle in me such a love for God that I may be satisfied only in his service and lovingly submit to all legitimate authority for the sake of your kingdom. Make me increasingly uncomfortable with everything that is evil, so that I turn away from it and live only in you. Amen.

Fear of the Lord: Come and fill me, O blessed Spirit of Holy Fear. Penetrate my inmost heart so that I may honor, obey and prefer you and my Lord Jesus and my Father God above all else. Help me to despise all things that offend you, and make me worthy to appear before the pure eyes of your Divine Majesty in heaven, where you live and reign forever in the unity of the ever Blessed Trinity. Amen.

I’ll let you skim through Fr. Scupoli’s preliminaries before I start sharing my commentary on the book; luckily, you can find them online for free, along with the rest of his treatise. Of course, I don’t guarantee the site I’ve linked to, just the actual text of The Spiritual Combat.

Once you get through the preliminaries, you’ll have a rough overview of Fr. Scupoli’s fourfold path to victory in spiritual warfare: distrust of self, confidence in God, proper use of the faculties of body and mind, and the duty of prayer. Today, I’ll begin my meditations on the first of these: distrust of self.

Here is the relevant passage for our discussion:

Distrust of self is so absolutely requisite in the spiritual combat, that without this virtue we cannot expect to defeat even our weakest passions, much less gain a complete victory. This important truth should be deeply imbedded in our hearts; for, although in ourselves we are nothing, we are too apt to overestimate our own abilities and to conclude falsely that we are of some importance. This vice springs from the corruption of our nature. But the more natural a thing is, the more difficult it is to be discovered.

But God, to Whom nothing is secret, looks upon this with horror, because it is His Will that we should be convinced we possess only that virtue and grace which comes from Him alone, and that without Him we are incapable of one meritorious thought. This distrust of our own strength is a gift from Heaven, bestowed by God on those He loves. It is granted sometimes through His holy inspiration, sometimes through severe afflictions, or almost insurmountable temptations and other ways which are unknown to us. Yet He expects that we will do everything within our power to obtain it. And we certainly will obtain it if, with the grace of God, we seriously employ the following four means.

First. We must mediate upon our own weakness. Consider the fact that, being nothing in ourselves, we cannot, without Divine assistance, accomplish the smallest good or advance the smallest step towards Heaven.

I would like to focus on our “being nothing in ourselves.” What does this mean?

We are created from nothing, and so our essence, our self, is quite literally nothing. Our very being is, so to speak, on loan from God. And we mustn’t forget this. When we do forget this, or in other words, when we sin, we “reassert our nothingness” in the words of Fr. John Hardon’s wonderfully written Catechism. We reject God’s gift of existence.

Judeo-Christian mysticism has long emphasized this truth: everything we have is a gift, and we ourselves are images reflecting God’s glory, not the masters of a private universe entirely of our own making. Diverse authors talk of our nature as images of the Divine using terms such as “eye of faith,” the “spiritual man,” or the “unseen observer;” but all these terms mean the same thing: that which is aware of being aware.

Let’s investigate this concept with a brief exercise.

Drop everything you’re doing and find a place where you can rest in stillness. Sit back as an observer and watch your thoughts flutter by. Do not intervene; just watch. Everything will continue its maddening course for a brief while even in your absence, but soon things will begin to calm and only the noises of your immediate environment remain. Everything you are aware of in this moment, these noises, the occasional concern that arises in your mind, your personality, your memories, your beliefs, absolutely everything you typically identify with your deepest self, will be seen as something external. All that remains, like the surface of a quiet pond, is the image of God.

Fundamentally, every man is a mirror which reflects the dazzling light of the God through whom we live, move, and have our being. We cannot point to any one thing in ourselves we did not first receive from a friend, or a kind word, or a beautiful picture, or perhaps a good book. To use a metaphor similar to that of the mirror, we are all prisms which capture the colors of the world for a brief moment, only to scatter them back from whence they came as we are tossed along in the winds of the Spirit.

In ourselves, we are nothing; our life is hidden in God.

Don’t be impatient if you find all this hard to grasp. And if the thought of you not ultimately even being in control of who you are disturbs you, if the thought of you being completely helpless and entirely dependent on the existence, on the God, who surrounds you frightens you, that’s okay–it’s supposed to do that.

And that is why this recognition of our nothingness, of our utter destitution, of our unfathomable poverty of spirit, is so vital to spiritual combat–it exposes every flicker of pride and selfishness for what it is: a foolish delusion. To try and clutch the self is like grasping at sand; to exalt the self is like trying to carve a statue out of water because there is nothing solid, nothing unchanging, present to latch onto.

This truth cannot be emphasized enough; by acknowledging and keeping it in mind, we can avoid a great deal of trouble.

You are truly holy, O King of all time and source of all holiness. Holy is your only Son, our Lord and God, Jesus Christ. Holy is your Spirit who reaches the depths of all things, even the depths of your own Being. You are God and Father, holy, almighty, all-powerful, awesome, and good, compassionate toward the sufferings of your creation. You formed us from the earth and conferred on us the joy of paradise. When we transgressed your command and sinned, you neither neglected nor rejected us, but rather, as a merciful Father, you sought us. By the law you called us back; by the prophets you guided us; and, at last, you sent your only Son, our Lord and God Jesus Christ, into the world, that he might renew your image in us. He came down from heaven, and, being conceived of the Holy Spirit and taking flesh from the ever-virgin Mary, Mother of God, he dwelt among us and accomplished everything for the salvation of our race.

Growing up, I attended in Bethel Baptist Church, where a dinosaur-themed Vacation Bible School first lured me into the sanctuary at the age of four.  I remember a small, brown Apatosaurus on display—one of the prizes for memory verses—and I resolved to win it.  So I did.

Throughout the years that followed, I became familiar with the central tenets of Christianity and adopted them, opting to get baptized at the age of eight.  Always too precocious for my own good, I studied the Scriptures and often got in trouble for arguing with Sunday school teachers over the proper interpretation of certain passages.  However, toward the end of middle school I became bored with the Baptist Church, whose teachings seemed only to skim the surface.  I began examining my faith and asking the “big questions,” like is the faith tradition I have received trustworthy; why does God allow suffering in the world; is there only one way to heaven; and is there even a heaven at all?

But my religious instructors never engaged my inquiries in these areas. So I was left to explore them alone.

During high school, I took up a serious study of church history and theology as a hobby. That was when I discovered the writings of the early Christians, both orthodox and heterodox. Despite their differences, the religion (or religions) they described appealed to me both intellectually and spiritually. Ultimately, I sided with the orthodox authors, mainly because I found their arguments more balanced and persuasive. By the time of my junior year in high school, I had worked my way up to the medieval mystics.

In the middle of my senior year, it became evident to me that I couldn’t honestly continue to attend my Baptist Church, since I didn’t agree with their manner of worship or their teachings. I also admit to a personal grudge, because the congregation would never make much effort to accommodate me in church activities. For example, they would always ask my family to donate to the annual youth beach trip fund, but they would never reserve wheelchair accessible places (I’m disabled).

I was torn between whether to convert to Eastern Orthodoxy—the artistic, mystical, and liturgical tradition of which held a special appeal for me—or Roman Catholicism, which offered a more thorough and logical explanation of doctrine.  Eventually, with a little prodding from a Catholic girlfriend, my inner Vulcan won out and I went with reason over mystery.

But I remained restless.

College caught me right at the beginning of this spiritual exodus. My classes and time on campus afforded me the opportunity to conveniently investigate different ways of thinking. Above all, my course with Dr. Hawkins allowed me free reign to dive into the holy texts and traditions of non-Abrahamic religions, something I had not yet gotten around to doing. Such experiences broadened my cultural horizons, encouraging me to adopt a more free and philosophical interpretation of the Bible as well as a more advanced and articulate theory of its inspiration that does not discount the work of God in other religions. For example, I realized many of the ideas related by the Upunishads are comparable to those of Christian mystics. I also decided to adopt some concepts from the Tao Te Ching—the basic text of Taoism—into my own worldview, which is otherwise predominantly Thomistic.

Exploring the social scene of campus life also fueled my ongoing spiritual journey. After joining a Roman Catholic fraternity on campus, it became clear to me that man does not live by logic and doctrine alone—mystery is required. I just did not click with the culture of contemporary Christianity, be it Catholic or Protestant. When I first acknowledged this truth, it was very difficult to face because at the end of the day, the modern American churchgoing scene with all its glorious Cartesian ordering, rationalizing, and simplifying was the only world I knew.

Deep down, I wanted all the “smells and bells,” something which I think the ordinary form of the Roman rite has moved away from in recent years. I did explore the traditional Latin Mass, but it just couldn’t compete with the eastern liturgies I had witnessed while visiting Orthodox Churches prior to my conversion. Then I found Our Lady’s Maronite Catholic Church. Not only was it close to my house, it was an eastern Christian community in communion with the Catholic Church. The way I saw it, I could have the best of both worlds. But I had little idea what I was getting into.

From the instant I walked through the door into a narthex jammed with people shouting and laughing in a foreign language over the pungent smell of unknown foods, I felt immersed in some weird knock-off of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Within moments I was kissed and greeted by everyone within a ten-foot radius and ushered into the main sanctuary. Fortunately, the service was almost entirely in English and had exactly the air of mystery I was looking for.

Soon, I was discussing becoming a parishioner with Msgr. Donald Sawyer, the priest there, who is best described as a Lebanese-Texan redneck. During one of my first confessions at the Church, he pulled out a foot-long hunting knife and began casually cleaning his nails! The utter informality and familiarity present in the community was shocking at first. Everybody knew everything about everyone. No one was in a hurry to go anywhere, and it was common for folks to just hang around for hours after services.  I was practically assaulted by invitations to meals and special events!

Though it took some getting used to, I began to feel comfortable inside this laid-back Mediterranean culture. It helped me slow down and taught me to value real people over the endless items on my hectic schedule. I came for mysticism, but I stayed because of the bright smiles and warm hearts. After awhile, I even got used to my fellow parishioners, men included, kissing me on the lips to greet me. Which was mighty strange at first, I must say!

Oh yes, as an addendum, I ended up getting re-baptized and confirmed in the Maronite Church. While studying the Church Fathers in preparation for being a Catechist, I discovered proper intention is necessary for a baptism to be valid. My old Baptist Church was independent and not a member of the Southern Baptist Convention, so baptisms performed by them were not automatically recognized. Moreover, at the time of my baptism, it was made clear that it was not a sacrament but just a public profession of faith. Thus, after speaking briefly with a canon lawyer, he recommended the move for re-baptism, or as its officially called, “conditional baptism.” So, I had the odd privilege of entering the Catholic Church two years after I entered her, and this time in a rite which suited me best.

I suppose all things work out for the greater glory of God and those who love him.

Of course, in an ideal world, everyone would read these documents in their entirety, and that would be that–end of discussion. But since we live in reality, the constraints of daily routines make this practically impossible for most people, so I will summarize the perennial teaching of the Church in the following manner: the Bible is objectively and absolutely inerrant in matters of faith, morality, religion, and those foundational facts–namely historical realities such as the fall of man, exodus of Israel, and resurrection of Christ–upon which these necessarily rest.

There is a lot of meat here, so let us flesh this out.

The meaning of inerrancy when it pertains to the Bible depends on what aspect of Scripture is under scrutiny. Thus, when we say the Bible is inerrant in matters of faith, we mean it teaches, without error, the honest truth about God and his dealings in both the spiritual and the material realms; when we say the Bible is inerrant in matters of morality, we mean it teaches, without error, the honest truth about man’s duties to God and neighbor; when we say the Bible is inerrant in matters of religion, we mean it teaches, without error, the honest truth about how man ought to express his faith in God through the carefully codified acts of worship it recommends, whether they be communal or solitary; and when we say the Bible is inerrant in matters of foundational facts, we mean it teaches, without error, the honest truth about the events and people upon which its other teachings necessarily rest (for example, if there were no real fall of man, or if Christ did not rise from the dead in actual history, it would be absurd to claim the resurrection of Christ saves us from sin).

In closing, dear reader, I pray God’s grace may guide your ongoing exploration of his Word. With all the angels and saints, let us ask in one voice, “Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of thy faithful and enkindle in them the fire of thy love. Send forth thy Spirit and they shall be created. And thou shalt renew the face of the earth. Amen.”

Glad you agree.

Here’s the basic problem:  God in the OT seems mean– we’ve got plagues, floods wiping out earth, destruction, wandering in deserts, wars, etc., and of course, the biggie, the expulsion from Eden.  And then in the NT, in walks Jesus, who’s all about love and kindness and challenging other people’s lifestyles, and who, in many an idyllic view, never seemed to raise his voice or what have you.  The people who see these as highly incompatible have a good point– these don’t really fit.  But they then face the logical problem of this:  if God is truly God as we describe him, his nature ought to be constant.  That is, we say God is Love, God is Truth, etc., and these things don’t change.  Why, then, does God?

And if he does change, why is he worth our worship?  Can’t we pick the one we like better?

I think at the heart of this, though, is a misunderstanding of our predicament as sinners.  I’m like most people, I think, in that I think of most people as basically good people.  I like to think of myself as basically a good person.  And I think (and hope!) there are merits in these opinions.  But we have to understand divine-human relations as, well, a relationship– with the same principle behind it as any relationship:  namely, that it can be broken.

At my university, as at several, and particularly at military colleges, there is an honor code or honor system as you prefer.  Some schools with an honor system have varying punishments, but the strongest honor system schools only have one:  you’re out.  Why?  Because they understand that at the heart of every relationship is trust, and to break trust is to break the relationship.  All that remains is to sever formal ties;  it’s merely a formality.

This is where we stand as human beings.  We’ve broken the relationship between us and God– thousands of times, each of us.  And God is Love, Truth, and Life– so when we leave him, we get Death, Lies, and Destruction.  That’s not a vengeful God of the OT;  that’s justice, as painful as it is to admit it.  Those punishments are what we all deserve.

So why the “difference” between OT and NT?  Well, Jesus.  Because throughout human history, the one God of testaments Old and New had a plan to restore us to him, to bridge the chasm our sin creates between us, with a bloodied cross as our passage.  It’s not that God’s supposed vengence goes away;  it’s that Christ takes upon himself a punishment that is, justly, ours.  As Paul says, the “wages of sin is death.”  That means that the eternal separation and death we deserve gets redirected at Christ, the innocent but willing victim.

The “problem” between OT and NT exists only as a problem of perspective.  Mostly, we like to think of ourselves as the good guys– I know I’d like to idealise myself as right there with John and Mary at the foot of the cross.  But the problem is, we’re really like the thieves hanging right beside Christ.  For those of us who know it, we know we are there justly, not at the whim of a cruel god, but nailed there by our own sins.  The only “difference” between the New Testament and the Old Testament God is that from the Crucifixion onward, there is the opportunity to be like the Good Thief.  That is, to know that our punishment is just, and yet claim Christ’s sacrifice on our behalf:

Remember me, when you come into your kingdom.

–Rosy

Rather, this is about one of “my” beggars.  Remember back in October, when I posted somewhat regularly (sorry!), and talked about my decision to give to beggars?  Well, I can gladly say I’ve kept up with it, and changed the rules around a bit.  I have some “regulars” that I give to, those who I see frequently enough that we recognise each other.  A couple of these people beg at my church.  One of them often begs at my metro stop.

In the beginning, because I saw her so frequently, I tried to give to the lady at the metro stop once or twice a week, figuring I couldn’t give more.  But around Christmas, I gave everybody extra, and I started giving the lady at my metro stop something every time.  My “limits” were only small hurdles I’d built for myself.

She’s always in the same coat.  She has a worn-looking crutch, and a worn-looking face, but it’s always made up a little bit, giving her a look oddly cheery despite her usual implacable sad face.  For over a month, I gave to her every time I saw her, and she smiled at me, and, like many beggars, thanked me profusely and, I think, asked God to bless me.  Then, a couple weeks ago, she actually told me to stop giving to her- I couldn’t understand it exactly, but I think she was saying something like, “I’m fine, you don’t have to give all the time.”

When you’ve seem somebody with a bandaged foot begging on the barely sheltered stairway of your metro station at midnight, well, it stays with you.  So I left off for about a week, before giving her another small bill and saying, “Sometimes it’s possible.”

I was going up the stairs after work and saw her tonight, and I was debating whether I should give tonight or not when she stopped me.  Tonight, she’s selling some roses, too, 100 roubles for 5 (they don’t do dozens here).  She told me to take some, so I picked up a pack of red ones, and she told me to take some white ones, too.  For 200 rubles to help someone who in some sense is nearly a friend, well, it’s not much.

But when I reached for my wallet, she told me not to pay.  I thanked her a lot, and as I started to leave she asked me my name and I asked hers.  Please remember Masha in your prayers.

There are many things I could say, but it comes down to the love of God touching us through each other.  She’s given more than I have, I who have plenty, and I can never repay her.  Ten roses sit in a jar on my dresser because the seed of generosity God planted in me grew in both our hearts.  I couldn’t keep my hard face on for the walk home– that face I use because everyone here seems to wear one.  I simply cradled the flowers and smiled to myself.

The idea of a garden flows throughout literature and popular metaphor for a reason.  It seems to me that God is ever looking to plant a new Eden in our hearts.  I am usually a poor gardener, but in this one small corner of it, I can see the true Gardener’s work, and it is good.

I have to say, I really enjoy watching Texas Hold’em, which is a rare game where it’s definitely more about the betting– much more about the betting than the cards.  You don’t play the cards in Hold’em:  you play the people.  So I’ve watched and gotten all the catch phrases down- “Pocket deuces” and “he flopped trips!”  and calling Kings “cowboys” and such.  And in case you haven’t watched Celebrity Poker Showdown (the one you actually learn the most from) or the World Series of Poker, here’s a quick primer on how it goes.

There are some obligatory bets in Hold’em – a bigger one and a smaller one (half the bigger one)- called “blinds.”  Then those who haven’t put in the largest amount in have three options: “fold” and be out of the round, spending nothing;  ”call” and put in enough to match the big blind;  ”raise” by putting in more money.  The trick of the raise is that after that, everyone has to put in enough to match it or else fold.  And players can “re-raise.”

And that’s exactly what I think has been happening with me, Ten Prayers, and God.

Today I dawdled and delayed a bit by reading more in Orthodoxy (GKC) and Ten Prayers (DeStefano) before realising that, yes, I did actually have to shower and get dressed (I was in fact in my pajamas quite late- I like them and had nowhere to go yet) and go to Mass.  I hit chapter 8 today, well started it- at 1:40 I finally came to my senses (English Mass is at 3- well there’s one at 9 but I’d have to leave at about 8:10 to get there and that’s not going to happen right now).

I had to pull myself out of Ten Prayers in Chapter 8:  ”Sometimes Being Smart Just Isn’t Enough; God, Give Me Wisdom.”  DeStefano was just telling me about asking God to help with decisions.  This is an area in which I can use a lot of encouragement.

I think it comes down to being afraid of what God will say.  What if he wants me to be a “holy beggar” or something?  What if he wants me to do something completely different from what I thought?  What if he tells me and I don’t know how to listen?  Actually, the last one is a biggie for me, because the thing I miss most from my childhood is the closeness I felt with him, where I was sure I heard his voice.  I don’t regret growing up, but I do regret growing foolish and unable to hear him.  How will I know what he wants?  And will I be able to give it?  I know logically and through faith God won’t give more than I can handle, but that hasn’t stopped the fear.  I guess that’s why any time he has a big announcement, it starts with, “Don’t be afraid.”  In one sense, I trust God quite a lot– because of my closeness as a child, I have been blessed with certainty of his existence.  In the senses that matter more in everyday life… I’m a real skeptic.

But I’ve been smart enough, I think, to be skeptical about my own plans as well.  I just don’t know that they’re what he wants, so I don’t have complete peace with them.  So I figured I ought to pray that prayer.  I almost “dashed it off” quickly as I read and then hopped in the shower.  I figured I’d already gone in on the whole charitable giving thing, and that if I really missed that closeness, prayer was the only way to get it back.  So I said it.

And God saw my bet, and re-raised me.

As I mentioned in a Quick Take a couple weeks back, I was asked to lector at Mass the second Sunday I attended, after which I also said, I’ll be here til July, so you’ll see me around.  Well, every Sunday I’ve been since then I’ve been asked to lector.  Not only have I been asked to lector, but I’ve been given the biggest portion- first reading plus the psalm response.  Today I only got there with about 5-8 minutes to spare, and figured they’d have already gotten someone.  But I guess they were hoping I’d show because I sat down and immediately was handed the lectionary.  The fellow who is basically the acolyte and does things like assign readings and get Communion counts told me they love it when I read.  I’m one of the few English speakers there from a country where it’s the sole dominant language so it’s easier for me to be expressive I think, plus I figured if I’m reading it I should read it with expression.  As long as no one else is getting shafted, I’m happy to help, even though a bit nervous when I step up there.

Given that I’m eight hours ahead of EST, it’s entirely possible that some folks haven’t gone to Mass or service if you’re in a Protestant church that follows the calendar of readings, so here’s a little liturgical “spoiler alert.”

I looked down at the book, and I almost had tears running down my cheeks– my eyes were suffused with them, and are again now even thinking about it.  Here is the first reading:

I prayed, and prudence was given me,

I pleaded, and the spirit of wisdom came to me.

I preferred her to scepter and throne,

and deemed riches nothing in comparison with her,

nor did I liken any precious gem to her;

because all gold, in view of her, is a little sand,

and before her, silver is to be accounted mire.

Beyond health and comeliness I loved her,

and I chose to have her rather than the light,

because the splendor of her never yields to sleep.

Yet all good things together came to me in her company,

and countless riches at her hands.

– Wisdom (!) 7:7-11

Okay, okay, I get it.  That’s a dose of wisdom, a “trust me” and an implied “be not afraid” all in one, right when I asked for wisdom.  I don’t get amazed by “coincidences” — I am constantly amazed by how detailed God is, and how, if you’re looking, he’s really hitting you over the head (lovingly, of course) all the time– he just knows everything so well that he stands behind you encouraging you, and is the ground beneath you so you have a good path, and is the star before you to follow, and when you finally do listen, he’s already in the place he’s been leading you to, ready to welcome you in.  It’s mind blowing, because it’s so incredible- and so incredibly loving.

I’ve been shuffling my way along on this wisdom thing for a long time.  I think God even helped the priest out with the homily today just for me, the one about the rich man who doesn’t want to give up all his stuff.  He said something like, ‘It’s not enough to stay out of trouble;  you have to go beyond that.’  Giving God something to outdo, and now asking him for wisdom– and it seems like that line is just for me.

You know what I didn’t mention about betting in poker?  At any point in the game, any player who’s still got his hand can go “all in” — and anyone who wants to remain in the game has to go all in, too.  I think the reason I was folding so many hands was because I’ve been afraid of going all in.  I hope that the prayers I’ve been praying, “God, outdo me in generosity,” “God, give me courage,” “God, give me wisdom,” and “Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” will prepare me to go all in.

I sure hope so– because I’m finally starting to want it again.

-theRosyGardener

Updated only to add categories and correct a typo in which I accidentally claimed I’d been asked to lecture at church– thankfully for both my pride and the very lives of anyone potentially subjected to a lecture by me, I was asked to lector.  And all my family will commence laughing now….

Most probably we are in Eden still. It is only our eyes that have changed.

I hadn’t actually seen that one before.  I have PDF printouts now of both the Chesterton Society’s quotations page and now their bibliography page, where I found it.  I think it is a beautiful way to look at our separation from God and each other through sin.

In Genesis we encounter this notion of different vision- Adam and Eve’s eyes have been “opened” by sin to their own nakedness, but in result they have been closed off by sin from being able to look at each other in love without lust, from walking with God, etc., etc.  We are all in a marvelous world, but with sin’s effects, wouldn’t it be just like us to wander about in it unaware of its wonders?

I remember reading in a grade school history book that some industrial cities in the 19th century had such activity at the factories that they were in constant haze, even having ash landing on doorsteps daily and the like.  I wonder if that isn’t what sin’s done to us, but on an individual level- like a milky glaze over our eyes.  There are some clear spots, different for each person I think, just as we all have strengths and weaknesses corresponding to our virtues and vices.  But with sin, we never see things fully, not as God sees his world and his people.

There are nice little sayings about seeing through heaven’s eyes or as God sees, and there is a lot of truth in those sparse words.  It seems to me it is only too likely we are in Eden and simply can’t see it, much like the heaven in The Chronicles of Narnia had a England that was somehow more England than the one they knew back on earth– in fact, everything was simply more itself.  If our eyes could return to their pre-fall state, perhaps we would all be able to walk through walls as Christ did, simply because we’d see that they aren’t really there.  It’s almost like the sci-fi/science idea of being “out of phase” (only I could find a Stargate connection with a Chesterton quote, lol).  The idea is that entire worlds, natural wonders, buildings, and lives may exist comingling with ours but without a trace to either of either because they are 180° out of phase with our own– exactly distinct enough to be invisible.  If sin wasn’t a 180° turn I don’t know what was.  We turn our backs on God all the time.

But Christ heals vision- the cross, a glorious “paradox” as GKC says, becomes the intersection of the world we live in and the world we left.  Such a grace this is to us!  Such a God to love us so, eyes unfettered and ungilded, unlike our own, to see past our infirmities to the children he loves.

There is a concept articulated very clearly in Catholic teaching that goes something like this: “Love the sinner, abhor the sin.”  There may well be other traditions that have this idea, but it seems to get discarded really quickly these days, by Christians of all stripes, including Catholics.  And it usually comes from misguided understanding of love.

Let me make a collectivised version of the argument:

God’s love is unconditional.  Therefore, we Christians are called to love unconditionally.  Unconditional love doesn’t stop because we don’t like something about the person.  In fact, people who make a big deal about other people’s choices in the name of Jesus often act in unloving ways.  So, when people single out things they think are wrong about people (individually or as groups), they’re not really loving them as they are.  So you can’t just separate sin and sinner and call that Christian charity.

The above argument is not without merit.  True enough, some people pound on sins, usually a few favorite vices, in a way that is basically devoid of any charity.  But the argument above has some serious issues.  One is that it misunderstands the entire point of abhoring sin and loving sinners, and the other is that it ends up destroying the very caritas or agape love it thinks it’s promoting.  And here’s why:

I have witnessed the effect of the anti-sin-abhorrence crowd in them, and any who follow it to its end invariably come to the same point:  they lose any sense of what makes a sin, and why it matters.  It is a very feel-good, teddy-bear faith to have a wishy-washy sense of “sin.”  Why?  Because when we reduce sin in this way, the only things that get called sins are either fairly obvious (like, say, murder) or very vague (“imposing on others,” for instance, or “hurting other people”), and everything else, including some very serious sins, become matters of opinion or, even worse, “personal preferences.”  No honesty discussion of morality happens when everything is prefaced by, “Well, this is what’s right for me.” But more importantly, there can be no true love without a strong concept of sin.

That may seem a little weird or backwards, but I am convinced that it’s true.  Why?  Because love doesn’t mean not seeing the flaws, even if a lovey-dovey couple goes through that phase.  When the honeymoon’s over, even the most rose-colored-glasses-wearing pair is going to realise that there are some things that seriously tick them off about each other.  A marriage doesn’t last because they decide that those aren’t really flaws– a marriage lasts because they decide that they love each other beyond those flaws, in spite of them, even.

If we go into Christian love blind to any flaws, we aren’t capable of actual Christian love.  I remember going to confession during Lent at my Catholic high school.  A girl in my math class had decided to pick on me a bit, and I’d finally had enough and started scoring her on her insults in a little scoreboard I made in a notebook called the “Bitch Olympics.”  It wasn’t particularly nasty, but it was somewhat effective, especially as the girl and her friends seemed to find it amusing.  Irony of ironies, we ended up on the same pew waiting for confession, and she said teasing me was on her confession list and I had to admit that the Bitch Olympics were on mine.

I got into the confessional, a nice dark one, with the kneeler and the screen, and even better, a priest I didn’t know at all.  He sounded old, with a withered strength to his voice.  I went through the usual- being mean to siblings, talking back to parents, and then I got to the Bitch Olympics, which certainly ranks among my most inventive sins.  Naturally, I detailed how she teased me, and how I knew it was wrong but did I mention she was teasing me?  And that I just didn’t like her?  The response I got was something like this:

Love isn’t a commandment because it’s easy.  It’s a commandment because it’s hard but it’s the right thing.  And Jesus commanded us to do it.  It doesn’t matter that you don’t like this girl, or that she’s mean to you.  You have to love her anyway.

I think when we take away the idea of sin, we are really robbing ourselves of the true virtue and commandment of love.  If we just accept the sins, downgrading them and acting like they don’t matter, we’re doing everyone involved a massive disservice.  It may seem like it’s no biggie, but think about two options a parent has when his child does something wrong– what about parents of kids who get involved in drugs or become promiscuous?  Who loves the child more, the “anything goes” parent, or the one who still loves his child despite these terrible deeds, and takes all the suffering that comes with it?

And while we’re talking about wayward children, if there isn’t any real sin beyond biggies or vague non-harm principles, why would Jesus bother to die for us?  I know it’s not what’s intended when people say you can’t separate sin and sinner, but the end result is that we actually denigrate the love of God for us.  Dying on a cross for perfect people isn’t nearly as heroic as dying for people who are pretty darn awful.  ”Blind love” that just ignores the things we don’t like doesn’t seem like real love at all.  I could keep going on and on trying to articulate it, but once again GK does it better:

Love means loving the unlovable, or it is no virtue at all. - GKC

Have a great week!

-Rosy