THE LOVELY VIOLET

Once upon a time...

In the land of Aayushi, there grew a flower of the most astounding grace; a violet more comely than a girl. 

It is true, not even the princess, whose name was Princess Marguerite, - a very charming girl indeed, - could match for loveliness this little violet. But, while the beauty of the princess was lauded far and wide, not a soul in the kingdom had remarked upon the lovely violet!

Only a wild boy, who lived all by himself, deep in the forest, had come to see the flower. Only he had learned her rare and perfect grace. Many times, he visited, and often dreamed of bringing others, too. Alas, he was frightened of the people in the town, and much preferred the company of beasts. In any case, the boy was mute and, even if he could have spoken, those who knew of his existence never would have listened, for they all believed him mad.

Markel was his name, although he did not know it, and there was no one left to tell him that. You see, when he was just a tiny child, his poor mother had fallen deathly ill, and Father had not returned from seeking medicine in town. Markel, who was faithful, kept his mother's body warm, using blankets just as Father taught him; though it had long ago turned cold and brown and dry.

He waited for the kind man, never doubting that he would return, remembering those parting words, "I will return, but keep her warm,". Still, he could not recall the name by which father called him - and, indeed, the only names he knew were "Mama" and "Papa". These he studied to himself sometimes at night, keeping them close as though they were, apart from the animals, his only friends. And so they were.

Now, the boy would surely have perished, if not for the assistance of a tutelary spirit, invisible to him; a satyr named Silenus, who led him secretly to where the crystal waters flowed and the good berries hung on twigs. How he found them was a mystery to him, and it could not have occurred to his mind that there was anyone on earth - or in another world - to thank.

Naturally, the boy was lonely, but, more than this, he was quite sensitive. So much so, that, even the softest animals sometimes seemed coarse to him. Hence, the friendship he was keen to share with them was always somewhat lacking. Then, one day, he spied the lovely violet.

For months, the little flower had grown tenderly beside an ancient stone, no larger than a lion's paw, in a field of shining-emerald-green. She, too, was lonely, and eager for a friend. Often, she would whisper to the stone, who only would rebuff her:

"You'll wither soon," replied the stone, "and I am tired of making friends, just to watch them die. Why don't you go bother the grass?"

But the grass was stupid. It had nothing much to say. Nothing but "Ooooo!" when the wind blew it one way - and "Weeeee!" when it blew the other.

Early one morning, while the boy was out exploring, he suddenly was taken with a bolder mood. (This was Silenus, inspiring him, although he never knew from where such inspirations sprung.) He decided to venture into the field of shining-emerald-green, much closer to the town than he had dared in several years to come.

And there she was.

He saw her at a distance; a shade of purple, far softer than the berries he had seen.

Loveliness. A feeling he had never known. Not nearly so acutely, anyway. Perhaps, before the dawn, watching the pale moon sink above the mountain's silhouette, he thought, he may have felt a similarly tender thrill. But, no! That was nothing. Nothing like this.

"Mama," he seemed to hear inside his head, and wondered at it for a little while. "Mama," the voice inside him said again.

"What's that?" the violet perked.

She could not see him, but such soundless voices, somehow, she could hear. And her inquiry gave off a perfume he could almost taste upon the air.

It was then that Markel really swooned, for the beauty of her scent was more than he could bear. He lay down beside the lovely violet, as if under a power not his own, and gazed upon her lovingly, - and then he wept.

To this she responded in kind; her petals shimmering with subtle, violet shades which she herself did not suspect were hers. Oh, what blissful waves of meaning! What was being? Oh, to be alive!

Suddenly, she seemed to know his name, and sent it out, upon the breeze, written invisibly in scent.

To him it came as memory.

"I am Markel, I recall!"

The sound of his own voice, which had so long been mute, came unto him as a surprise more striking even than his name.

My friends, my friends, do not be astonished so soon! For I have yet to relate the greater miracle, which is the real reason for my tale. Presently, I shall tell you why this incident has long been passed down, through the aethers, from the souls of former bards, to the one who tells it now.

At the mention of his name, our flower was transformed! Instantly, metamorphosed, from a lovely violet into the most exquisite human lass! A creature of the softest skin, the sweetest glow, the kindest eyes, the dearest lips, which even angels must be brought to envy in their sacred rounds. And, too, her memory was stirred.

"I was your mother once," she spoke, more sonorous than harps upon a cloud. "Now you have awakened me: I am your love!"

It was then, the boy recovered all his wits. His mother had died, and father had perhaps been killed, so many years ago. But here was one more suited to his need, whom he would never, ever leave.

So they embraced.

Alas! Before their arms could tighten on each other, the girl returned to flower form, and the boy fell to the ground, with arms around himself. Oh, no!

He tried to cry out, but his voice was gone. Silent, just as it had been before. Only the memory of his name remained, but, then, a moment later, this was also lost. And, with it, all his wits.

A single tear ran down his cheek.

The violet shed a petal, too. 

That was their first encounter. Although there have been many meetings since, not once has the lovely violet ever taken human form again. Indeed, she has not changed at all. 

And never will she die.



~ FINIS ~

A Note On Prayer

Before undertaking prayer, regardless of whatever form your prayer assumes, it is most needful to place yourself, as much as lies in your power, in the all-merciful presence of God.

To awaken within yourself the recollection of this holy presence, both internally and in the world outside, is the proper aim of prayer. It is both the origin and consummation of all prayerful activity; just as an archer must first direct his arrow squarely at the target, if he wishes it to reach that end.

For the true place of prayer is not found in buildings made of earth, nor stone, nor wood. Neither is it found in the heart of the carnal body. But, rather, in the presence of God, which is, as it were, the heart of your spiritual body, or being.

Now, all forms of prayer, provided they proceed from an intention to remove yourself from the snares of ignorance, apathy, wrath, and despair, for the purpose of drawing closer to the Lord, who is the source of all that is peaceful, loving, holy, and good, are worthy of respect, -- nay, of real honor and praise, -- as graces already bestowed upon the soul by God.

The prayer of speech is not to be denigrated beside the prayer of silence, for each has its proper and appointed season under heaven. It is true, in silence there is sweetness -- incomparable sweetness! -- yet, words fall, and often rise, into this; and fall back through, to rise again.

You must not fixate upon a rigid approach, but remain attentive at all times to the Holy Spirit, that it may guide you into whatever manner of prayer is most effective for you, at any given moment.

For the Lord has wisdom surpassing every mortal conceit, and desires to lead the soul by diverse pathways; now carrying one into the highest peaks of revelation, now into the furthest depths of contrition, and also by avenues less treacherous, more moderate, and well-defined.

Be patient and listen with a faithful heart, but without undue expectation, neither holding oneself back, nor rushing ahead before the Word that is given, and the Lord of Hosts will direct your steps.

Most important, do not succumb to complacency, or faintheartedness, but lift always your soul into the presence of the Lord with confidence, fervor, and enthusiasm in his divine gifts; for so shall you receive them, and be consecrated, in Jesus's name.

April 2014

Faith is always supernatural;
other virtues may become so.

Many things I regret, but I never regret my regrets.

The adept becomes silent through humility, and because she must. As she progresses in the spiritual life, her trials multiply and intensify. When she believes herself blessed, she is damned. At every bend in the path, she is thrown. She can no longer trust her own tongue.

There's one choice in life:
You can be a cynic or a fool.
Be a fool!

The romantic visions of idealists,
though they never come to pass,
yet contribute immensely to the larger discourse.
They are forever compromising,
and forever gaining ground.

Fearlessness is sentimental as all hell.
It isn't guarded. It's the furthest thing from "cool".
It's all you wanna do.

You're walking through your life,
and suddenly something wakes you up,
and it's not like anything else.
It's enough. Suddenly enough.
And she's so gorgeous, you can't bluff.

Of flowers, Chamomile is the Christ.

Christ was a bodhisattva, and Buddha was a Christian saint.

We can only see the world when we don't expect it.

We need fresh eyes to see the world;
knowledge is the enemy of sight,
and ignorance is anything but blind.

Truth is the highest wisdom, reality the truest teacher, and that which exists is always the good. This present moment is to be preferred, above all else; if only because anything else is a lie. All we suffer is a coming to terms. Life can tell us of nothing but herself. Let us never be fearful to hear her.

To be entertained by our own creations is a remarkable thing,
but to be content with what the Lord has made is a privilege of the saints.

Every man is a confession or defense of himself.

I am the most severe, and, yet, the most lenient of judges;
from the body, I require the spirit, but I suffer the soul to be flesh.

We are in sin like fish are in water. In sin, we live, move, and have our being. We breathe it, filter it, gobble it up with our food, excrete it in our shit; like filthy thoughts in the ink from our pens. Sin is our element, and we need it to live. Take us out of it, and we'd gulp madly for life, flop around helplessly, and die. We'd become something else.

So long as the poor cannot drink wine,
wine is the blood of the poor.

We accessorize with the flesh of impoverished peoples;
what would put meat on their bones, puts ribbons in our hair
and kerchiefs round our necks.

We should all be beggars. Charity is the privilege of God.

Possessions encourage desire for possessions,
and wants easily turn into needs.

God is born in the manger of a humble heart;
not the mansions of a richly furnished mind.

Camus would argue that a Christian has no greater ethical demand upon him than any other man, but Bloy, like Kierkegaard, would say there is no greater responsibility than the one we assume when we call ourselves Christian. For them, the name is an office, and it must not be disgraced. Camus would call that bullshit, and say that everyone is answerable to his own conscience, whether or not one aspires to be good, or to live up to a title of goodness. What is clear to me, at least, is that the man who regularly compares himself to Christ can have few illusions about himself; his conscience remains sharp, and will cut him unless he takes care.

The most important lessons are always learned too late;
we have the wisdom to appreciate only what is lost.

Greed is the mother of ills.

Mercy is our link to the Divine.

Drugs are the spice of life.

To be born is the ultimate rude awakening.

To be born is to be drafted into someone else's war.

In a corrupt society, procreation is the arresting of souls,
and parenthood is the guarding of prisoners sentenced to death.

Not everyone can be a surgeon, a concert pianist, or a tamer of wild beasts. But most everyone seems to think they'd make a good parent. It's funny how our standards of "good parenting", like everything else, have all but collapsed under the weight of history. We no longer aspire, and are content to consider our present limitations an immutable law of our innermost nature. Our family values, the cornerstones of civilization, are now left shoddy and misplaced. In such a state, the ones who most value the institution of family respect it enough not to enter into it; not without due consideration, at least, and, most importantly, due preparation. Anyone can raise a child, but to raise a man or woman is a rare talent, and a great skill.

Where adoption is an option, procreation is a travesty.

Man is a plague on the earth and on himself.

If you can still tap your feet, you're okay.

With the simplicity of profoundest insight, Marcel Proust writes, "The atheist forgets that what he is affirming is, precisely, a negation." And the case of the mystic is only the reverse; for the true mystic *knows*, with a conviction surpassing all understanding, "that what he is affirming is, precisely, a negation." To him, to whom God is not so much a thing, as a supersensual reality transcending all things, the absence of God in the world is no argument against his existence, but, on the contrary, works entirely in its favor. The world, -- that is, our world; of matter, distinction, and sense, -- could not possibly contain a reality sufficiently transcendent as to be worthy of the name of "God". It is with an eye to perfect simplicity, but, also, to the most impenetrable mystery, that the mystic speaks, when he says, "God is known by his absence; don't we all feel this presence?" So it is that the part of God which makes an appearance in the world comes not in his own name, and asks not that we believe in him, but only in the One who sent him. A messiah is born out of that nothingness, that vacuum, or void, wherein God cannot be seen, but can be known, according to the divine longing we have for him. This is a truth which cannot, and never will, be grasped by the vulgar, but only the subtlest hearts and minds.

God reveals Himself to each man
in the form in which he can see Him,

according to the power and nature of his sight.

Never let truth get in the way of the greatest story ever told.

Never let truth get in the way of a Good Friday.

A proud man cannot suffer to serve, nor give glory to one greater than himself. But he who would lead himself goes nowhere, and he who would be his own sovereign has only a fool for a king. He would make the journey of a thousand miles on foot, rather than place his trust in the river, whose course is swift. He cannot recognize the tremendous current of tradition, which has gathered together so many like-minded souls before him, and will continue long after he is gone, directing all paths into one. He seeks, rather, to map for himself a way he has not traversed. He would shake off the sure and gentle hands that could guide him, as though they were fetters of iron, and wander through dark and uncertain climes. He imagines himself first, who is last, and will heed the exhortations of no man, however sainted by decades of struggle and study. He would cast aside books containing the essence of great souls. Having no knowledge of what is written and done, he would proclaim, as if for the first time, prophecies which have long been fulfilled. He would reinvent, in the crudest form, what has passed through the hands of a million others, and been perfected long before he drew breath. Woe to that man who would be his own master and guide! Lead only by arrogance, he will surely meet a bitter end.

Divine Heresy

Divine Heresy and Heretical Faith

Divine Heresy:
shattering concepts of God
that limit the awareness of God

Heretical Faith:
shattering the awareness of God
that limits the concepts of God

Renowned Kabbalist Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook saw the challenge which free-thinkers posed to various conceptions of God as a positive phase in the development of religion. The following words are translated from the rabbi's writings. The essential thrust is that any conception of God is, in some sense, heretical, and ideas concerning God easily calcify into rigid forms of idol worship. He believed that the atheists, by attempting to tear down these concepts, were accomplishing something which the faithful had lost the ability to do for themselves; which is, to see the lack of fluidity in their conceptions about God, and how these concepts actually hinder the connection to the true source of God's wisdom, which is intuitive. The Rabbi wrote: "As the Messiah approaches, insolence will increase." The word translated here as "insolence" is hutspa, which may also be translated as "nerve" or "audacity". As the forms become more rigid, their detractors become more audacious.

excerpted from:
"The Essential Kabbalah" by Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook:

“The essence of faith is an awareness of the vastness of Infinity. Whatever conception of it enters the mind is an absolutely negligible speck in comparison to what should be conceived, adn what should be conceived is no less negligible compared to what it really is... Every definition of God leads to heresy; definition is spiritual idolatry. Even attributing mind and will to God, even attributing divinity itself, and the name "God" -- these, too, are definitions. Were it not for the subtle awareness that all these are just sparkling flashes of that which transcends definition -- these, too, would engender heresy... The greatest impediment to the human spirit results from the fact that the conception of God is fixed in a particular form, due to childish habit and imagination. This is a spark of the defect of idolatry, of which we must beware.

All the troubles of the world, especially spiritual troubles such as impatience, hopelessness, and despair, derive from the failure to see the grandeur of God clearly. It is natural for each individual creature to be humble in the presence of God, to nullify itself in the presence of the the whole -- all the more so in the presence of the source of all being, which one senses as infinitely beyond the whole. There is no sadness or depression in this act, but rather delight and a feeling of being uplifted, a sense of inner power. But when is it natural? When the grandeur of God is well portrayed in the soul, with clear awareness, beyond any notion of divine essence.

We avoid studying the true nature of the divine, and as a result, the concept of God has dimmed. The innermost point of the awareness of God has become so faint that the essence of God is conceived only as a stern power from whom you cannot escape, to whom you must subjugate yourself. If you submit to the service of God on this empty basis, you gradually lose your radiance by constricting your consciousness. The divine splendour is plucked from your soul.

"Every sensitive spirit feels compelled to discard such a conception of God. This denial is the heresy that paves the way for the Messiah, when the knowledge of God runs dry throughout the world. The crude complacency of imagining God in words and letters alone puts humanity to shame. Heresy arises as a pained outcry to liberate us from this strange, narrow pit, to raise us from the darkness of letters and platitudes to the light of thought and feeling. Such heresy eventually takes its stand in the center of morality. It has a temporary legitimacy, for it must consume the filthy froth clingling to mindless faith. The real purpose of heresy is to remove the particular forms from the thought of the essence of all life, the root of every single thought... removing the dross that separates us from genuine divine light. On the desolate ruins wrought by heresy, the sublime knowledge of God will build her temple. Utter heresy arrises to purify the air of the wicked, insolent filth of thinking about the essence of divinity -- an act of peeping that leads to idolatry. In itself this heresy is no better than what it attacks, but it is absolutely opposed to it, and out of the clash of these two opposites, humanity is aided immensely in approaching an enlightened awareness of God, which draws it toward temporal and eternal bliss...

"Pure belief in the oneness of God has been blurred by corporeality. From time to time, this confusion is exposed. Whenever a corporeal aspect falls away, it seems as if faith itself has fallen, but afterward it turns out that, in fact, faith has been clarified. As the human spirit verges on complete clarity of faith, the final subtle shell of corporeality falls away -- attributing existence to God. For truly, existence, however we define it, is immeasurably remote from God. The silhouette of this denial resembes heresy but when clarified is actually the highest level of faith. Then the human spirit becomes aware that the divine emanates existence and is itself beyond existence. What appeared to be heresy, now purified, is restored to purest faith. But this denial of existence in God -- this return to the source of all being, to the essential vibrancy of all existence -- requires exquisite insight. Each day one must trace it back to its authentic purity.

"The Infinite transcends every particular content of faith."

Religion Is A Romance

Religion is a romance between the soul and God.
 

All true romantics are religious. Religion itself is only a language designed for the romantic. It is the epitome of poetic license.


Religious figures, or icons, anchor me to my ideals. The Son, the Virgin and the Saints all steady me, when I would drift in sordid and uncertain moods. They call me back to what is good. They center my spirit and point me true north.

 
Like many boys, and more than a few girls, one of my favorite things to do as a child was to play a game of "catch" with my dad. Somehow, the ball connected us, even as it allowed us room to stand back. It was relaxing. We'd get into a rhythm. We'd bond. Tonight, I attempted meditation for a while. I had the experience of playing a game of catch with my Holy Father. In place of a ball, there was air; in place of hands, lungs. It was very relaxing. I think we bonded. 
 

If we would route all notions through our hearts,
how few would make it as far as our tongues?


The softest touch breaks the heart. 


The path of excess leads to the hovel of frugality.


The world made by God is magnificent, splendorous, a banquet of sense; that made by man, a grotesque carnival of broken resolutions and bloated pretense.


The soul rests like a ball inside a dish, displaced by the slightest movement. As the body moves this way and that, the soul is jostled and rolls haphazardly around inside. Sometimes it even slips out and disappears under the furniture. Then you have to get down on your knees, or prostrate yourself altogether, in order to recover it. And if you want it to rest securely in the center of the dish, you had better learn to be still.


The spirit -- I mean, the human spirit -- needs something to fight. It needs an enemy, a devil, colossus, or, at least, a gadfly in the ointment. Otherwise, it slackens, bows under its own weight, and runs off to the side. The spirit needs a dark night. The dawn must be something to win.
 

Really, we are in no position to judge who is making efforts, or what efforts are required for each person to rise above their karmic station. We may see a man tumbling down a mountainside and think to ourselves, "The man is making no upward progress, but is actually continuing to fall, -- therefore, he isn't making a sincere effort," when, in fact, the man is fiercely dragging his pick behind him as he falls, and gradually slowing his descent, in order to regain his footing and renew the climb.



Our merits mount up as far as His foothills, and win us no share of His glory. It is our weakness, our folly, and infirmity which make us worthy of His love. For the love of God to man is not a love of one equal to another, but a descending love, whose character is compassion; just as the love man bears his God is an ascending love, the nature of which is adoration, and astonishment.


One cannot oppose the order of a civilization without opposing procreation. Procreation is the ultimate act of consent; just as the refusal to procreate is the ultimate act of dissent. In bringing another fragile life into the world, one affirms the world, fate, and the order of society as it stands. One effectively throws in one's lot with the whole, and becomes complicit in the will of the culture; obligated to respect its values, and to inflict them on another impressionable soul. Only the anti-natalist is truly entitled to imagine and enact his own values; to live in the world of his ideals, and not in the world as it is.


There is no birth without death. Every mother is a murderer.
 

Drops

Milk for babes, and tears for strong men.

We cringe before the moment, and crow before eternity.

I give my Lord this moment, all else I leave to Him.

The earth is a part of you,
no less than the foot that walks upon it.
In fact, you would last longer without the foot.

Generally speaking,
the fewer words we employ,
the greater our force of expression.

I regard long speeches with suspicion.
A good point is easily and speedily made,
if only it is sincere; obfuscation takes time.

Speech is an expression of force.
We deplete ourselves of vital strength
by nothing so much as a prattling tongue.

As I read "A Short and Easy Method of Prayer" by the mystic Jeanne Guyon, the very first instruction she provides is not to be concerned with the speed and volume of our spiritual reading. Our goal, she says, is to trigger the experience of theophany by the recognition of a single phrase or word -- and, ultimately, by silence alone. We are not to read quickly, but deeply. We are to dwell over every image or idea which distinguishes itself by some feeling of poignancy. We are to remain receptive to that poignancy; never to rush ahead, like children scattering the scent of flowers in their haste to smell more flowers. In reading, our goal is not to finish a book, but to be done with it. Really done with it. Just as, in travel, we do not desire to reach a destination, but to make a journey; to savor the sights and sounds, so as to add to our stock of experience, and to arrive more richly rewarded than when we left. What does it profit us, to close the covers on a book, yet retain nothing of it's contents? Or to retain only the most superficial points; the data and not the thrust; the letter and not the spirit? A book devoured in this way (devoured whole) must still be digested, but the stomach will be forced to perform, not without distress, those actions which the teeth refused. And this is true of all experience; of the greater journey, the greater tome, the greater banquet, that is life. Is it any wonder, to see old age spent in the mulling over of experiences which were so imperfectly understood when they occurred? At the pace we now live our lives, it would appear that many more lifetimes, or "afterlifetimes", would be needed, in order to process and fully integrate all that has happened to us thus far.

Only talent sees genius.

In paradise, all hearts are just the same, but then they break differently, and they heal in odd, misshapen, unexpected ways. They never cast the same shadows again.

I'm more likely to judge a person for being guarded, -- for not opening up and showing me something real, -- than for anything they could possibly show me.

The wise know well how to contemplate old age and death, but every simple man thinks he has time enough to spare, and imagines the years stretched out languidly before him, in which he will perform those good and pleasurable works he has conceived in his heart; a thoroughly presumptuous way to live, when you know not whether you shall awake tomorrow morning!
 

Questions For The Priest

In attempting to formulate views of Christian doctrine, -- views which would accord equally with both orthodoxy and my own reason, -- several difficult contradictions, or problems, have presented themselves, more or less consistently. I’ve attempted to divide them into firm categories, but it should be understood that these issues are, for me, deeply intertwined, and only teased apart here somewhat arbitrarily, for the sake of convenience.

[The following is a truncated version, with several questions omitted, -- again, for the sake of convenience.]

1.)       1.) THE WILL OF GOD 

          We are told by some mystics that it is blessedness to receive all things as created by God, and as manifestations of His unerring will, but it seems clear that many things happen which are horrific or abominable in the sight of God, and not at all according to His will. Should the sayings of these mystics be interpreted, or perhaps reformed, to suggest that God’s will is evident, not in what happens, -- not in created things, -- but, in a certain attitude or response to what happens? 

2.)       2.) THE WILL OF MAN 

 If every good work is performed by the grace of God, -- if it is to Him that all credit is due, and must be rendered, -- then, how can we be free to choose what is good?

How can the abdication of one’s personal will be considered an assertion of that will; or a free expression of that will; or the only expression of that will desired by God?

If the will of man is in opposition to God’s will, and if freedom means only the ability to make foolish, uninformed, weak, hasty, short-sighted, or cowardly choices, then, is free will really a gift, -- or a curse?

If the journey of the fallen soul is analogous to the parable of the prodigal son, then, was it somehow necessary to lose God through disobedience in order to fully experience and appreciate His love; in the form of forgiveness; that “fatted calf”? (Is evil necessary to the highest good?) 

3.)       3.) RESIST NOT EVIL

 When Christ instructs us to welcome the abuse of enemies, and to give more than is wanted to those who demand more than is due, he does not say, “If they repent first”. He places no conditions and, rather, appears desirous that the gifts of forgiveness and charity be showered on those who are LEAST worthy of them (though, it may be, most in need of them); as if to emphasize the idea that the consolations of God are not given according to the measurable love we have for Him, but, according to the immeasurable love He has for us; not by works, but by grace. If we are truly called to return good for evil, -- not to condemn, but to forgive and forbear the iniquities of others, nor to love only those who love us first, as “even sinners do”, but, in order to “be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect”, to treat the most abject sinners no worse than we would treat the Most High God (“for whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do to me”), -- how can we reconcile this injunction with belief in a legalistic God, capable of rendering hellfire, or anything other than infinite mercy, in return for the crime of unbelief; a God who is merciful only to those who confess (or who make their confession in His name), and, evidently, nowhere near as forgiving as He asks us to be, or as He has exemplified in the person of Jesus Christ?

4.)   4.) SALVATION      

 In what sense, or how deeply, is the soul drawn into communion with Christ, and brought under the protection of His Holy Spirit, through contemplation of His holy life; -- and to what degree must we remain divided from God, who have yet to encounter “the inward man”, so as to be united by theophany with that power which gives unambiguous evidence of itself, in the performance of miracles and heroic deeds, in the absence of self-regard, and in the bearing of a supernatural equanimity?

Christ promises that, if we believe in Him, we will perform miracles as great, and greater, than the ones He performed. Who among us has this kind of faith? Who claims to believe? Who “takes the name of the Lord” (calls himself Christian), but cannot give sight to the blind, nor make the lame walk, -- as if to give evidence against the promise of Christ? According to the test which Jesus Himself has set down, it would appear that only a number of distinguished saints and desert fathers were possessed of genuine faith.

If John the Baptist was called by Christ “greater than all those born of woman” and, yet, even he was “less than the least one in the kingdom of Heaven”, how can we be so presumptuous as to imagine that the pearly gates lie open to us? Because we believe? But John believed, and was not content with calling Christ “Lord, Lord”. Rather, he did what was commanded; he lived in poverty, with enmity towards none, and died a martyr for the faith. Have we known anyone to do as much? Yet, in heaven, he is called “less than the least”.