Do Work, Son

Human love is directed to the other person for his own sake, spiritual love loves him for Christ’s sake. Therefore, human love seeks direct contact with the other person; it loves him not as a free person but as one whom it binds to itself. It wants to gain, to capture by every means; it uses force. It desires to be irresistible, to rule.

Human love has little regard for truth. It makes the truth relative, since nothing, not even the truth, must come between it and the beloved person. Human love desires the other person, his company, his answering love, but it does not serve him. On the contrary, it continues to desire even when it seems to be serving. There are two marks, both of which are one and the same thing, that manifest the difference between spiritual and human love: Human love cannot tolerate the dissolution of a fellowship that has become false for the sake of genuine fellowship, and human love cannot love an enemy, that is, one who seriously and stubbornly resists it. Both spring from the same source: human love is by its very nature desire—desire for human community. So long as it can satisfy this desire in some way, it will not give it up, even for the sake of truth, even for the sake of genuine love for others. But where it can no longer expect its desire to be fulfilled, there it stops short—namely, in the face of an enemy. There it turns into hatred, contempt, and calumny.

Human love makes itself an end in itself. It creates of itself an end, an idol which it worships, to which it must subject everything else. It nurses and cultivates an ideal; it loves itself, and nothing else in the world. Spiritual love, however, comes from Jesus Christ; it serves him alone; it knows that it has no immediate access to other persons.

Therefore, spiritual love is bound solely to the Word of Jesus Christ. Where Christ bids me to maintain fellowship for the sake of love, I will maintain it. Where his truth enjoins me to dissolve a fellowship for love’s sake, there I will dissolve it, despite all the protests of my human love.  Human love can never understand spiritual love, for spiritual love is from above; it is something completely strange, new, and incomprehensible to all earthly love.

Therefore, spiritual love proves itself in that everything it says and does commends Christ. It will not seek to move others by all too personal, direct influence, by impure interference in the life of another. It will not take pleasure in pious, human fervor and excitement. It will rather meet the other person with the clear Word of God and be ready to leave him alone with this Word for a long time, willing to release him again in order that Christ may deal with him.

             - Life Together 

Life is an experience that we live in from moment to moment. It’s blessing is it’s curse: that we will never experience the same thing twice. Don’t seize on to the past, no matter how great or how piss-awful. The time is now. It will never be before, it will never be tomorrow. Don’t fill your mind with such wasteful thoughts. Tomorrow is an idea, it does not exist. Yesterday existed but only to taunt and never return. All that is is now and anything else is nothing else that will never be.

An ant does not simply hope to have food in the winter. It knows to set aside food for such an occasion. But this preparation can only be made now, not by doing it tomorrow and certainly not by wishing one had done it while there was still food. Time will not change your plight. By that I mean this: time will not move you. “One day when I’m older” is nonsense. Such an idea puts a burden on the person of time. But time is not a person and it won’t carry your burdens, it will only drop them on your feet. Time is something to be raced against, not waited upon. Plan what you will plan, say what you mean to say but always remember: leave nothing undone.

I hate only getting to see people experiencing one emotion. It’s cheap to only know someone in their calm moments, in their happy ones. I want to see people break down and cry. I want to see people express grief and anxiety and pain. Not because I’m some kind of sadist or have something wrong in my head but because it’s human. I want something to empathize with, something to sympathize with. Anything else is fake and worthless, like never getting past hello’s and how-are-you’s. Humanity is raw and doesn’t need to be polished to be presentable. In fact, in order to be humanity, it must avoid any such foolish pretense. I’m sick and tired of people telling me they are good when I ask them how they are. What’s the point of empty words?

What is growing up? Because I don’t think I’ve done it. Not that I’ve been torpid all these years, I just feel like I’ve changed but not necessarily in the up-direction. I’m still afflicted by those same old demons and enraptured by the same sweet choruses. I’m bigger than I was, smarter than I was, I’ve even aged some. But I swear to you, I’m not older. Maybe more tired, certainly not more mature. From time to time I think I might even be less mature with every year that passes by. I make bigger mistakes, they’re less often, but they’re bigger than I could have ever imagined they would ever be when I was twelve. I would be so ashamed and so pleased with myself if I only knew who I would become.

I’ve been trying to build a better man for so long now that I lost the blueprints. How do I become something other than myself? How do I know what to purge and what to bolster? How do I know how to do it? Being self-aware is a heavy burden. It would be nice to have no mirrors. To not get caught in that trap. But I keep coming back. Tricking myself, deluding myself. No one will deceive you as well as you will.

This is a good house. I’m sitting with two of my housemates, Caleb and Brett. Right now they’re struggling to properly phonate Arabic vowels. It’s hilarious. I like to point this out to them from time to time, even though they know it just as well as I do. Occasionally they accuse me of distracting them and I allow myself to be scapegoated but even when I’m quiet they abandon their linguistic pursuits to exchange opinions on various girls they’ve met these last few days. After this is done, they turn to inventing wild backstories for the pictures in their workbook which I’m sure they can’t understand. Presumably, the workbook chronicles Middle Eastern adultery and Osama bin Laden’s military compound. After a quick glance at the pictures, I realized they were on to something. 

From the table discussion, I’ve confirmed my suspicion that yelling makes funny things more funny. I tested this empirically by recording the responses to various comments I made throughout the night at various decibel levels. Then I showed them a youtube video. At the points of loudest volume, Brett proceeded to roll on the floor and later cried. I think this should be posted in a scientific journal. 

But you’re probably wondering what the house is like. As I said before, it’s a good house. “No parents, no rules.” I reminded my housemates of this as I proceeded to tell them that we could play Super Smash Bros. all night. There are no adults, unless you count us folks as grown-ups. Most people call us “immature”, only the government has the nerve to say otherwise. Brett and I have the whole basement to ourselves. It’s too big. I love it. There are messes everywhere. Everyone likes to complain about the state of disorder and talk about how they’re going to do something about it but as far as I’ve seen it’s just idle chatter.

All of my bad ideas seemed like good ideas at the time. Why did I shave? I’m now closer to growing a unibrow than I am a beard. If I were to have a son, he’d grow a beard sooner than I would at this rate. I am going to start a strict regimen of eating Rogaine three times a day. That or transplant hair from the top of my head to the chin region. I think this is a solid plan. Very healthy and safe.

Also… did you know that the word “beard” comes from “bear”? Legend has it that if someone was mauled by a bear (if they were “beared”), they would grow gratuitous amounts of facial hair. Hence, beard. Now where can I find a bear?

We are holding on.
Grasping on to each other, gasping for air
Clinging to the debris that floats in this mess of an ocean.

We will grab on to the scraps, 
for even dogs eat the crumbs from their masters’ table.
When there is nothing to hold on to, we hold on to Hope

And this Hope cannot be taken from us,
It cannot be broken by us or by those who oppose us.
It will not die with our mortal flesh, it will outlast tyrants and monarchs.
This hope will sustain us, though our backs will break and our minds will fail.

For by it we stand and we will not fall. 
We must simply hold on. 

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more” 

While everyone’s lost, the battle is won.

If you can hold on. 

Why do I not consider others before myself? Why do I not sell my possessions and give to the poor? Why am I so quick to anger? Why do I hold these grudges so close to my heart? Why do I eat while my neighbors starve? Why do I lust after what is not mine? My heart is a mountain, though not in love. It is a mountain of callousness, a mountain of stone; it is indomitably prideful.

How does one become something other than that which he is? Can I will myself to become more compassionate? Can I will myself to love with greater fervor? Would my efforts be a facade or would they be the marks of true love? If I do not feel love for my neighbor, can I still act out love for them with integrity?

I am a fallen victim. My heart beats but it serves no unselfish purposes. It is an abomination, more abhorrent than any leprous disease. Yet you loved the leper more than the cleanly priest. How? Teach me how to love the unlovely; Give me your heart. I resign myself to you. Remember me when you come into your kingdom.

The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. […]

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.