We've all seen with that true eye. For a moment, somewhere, we looked on things in a spirit of poverty; simply. Saw how only nature is perfect and pure, and all the works of men, even those we most admire, bear the stamp of something at once silly and scary, childish and exaggerated. We stood in the silence, and were a part of the silence; humble, and without knowing ourselves to be profound. We had to become self-conscious, - distanced in an instant from "that hollow note"; dragged, as if by some great and implacable whirlwind, back into the roar of the familiar, - before we could know just what had happened. What had we touched? What had we lost, in that instant, and maybe forever?
Walking amidst the bookshelves, you know the poetry speaks of moments like these, but the books are tombs; enshrined facades. Somehow, there is no taking them down, no opening, no entering into the life of them, for us. We might thumb at them, trying to recapture that devout and elusive magic, which springs unsummoned, and only at some unforeseen time, when person and book are perfectly matched by providence, and neither is capable of holding in itself that ineffable nature, that true splendor which shines through only of its own accord, and in its own patient hour.
Or when you stepped over branches, shielded heavy leaves from your path, to get somewhere through the woods, and catching scent of something unmistakable, something real, stopped dead in your tracks, to notice it gone. Now the path is familiar. You brush those leaves away with annoyance, and hardly remember, or remember with annoyance, having been there once, and felt, for a precious instant, the presence of grace; the breath of God on your nape. Now sadness that is a deadening of soul drags you down and down, and forgetfulness, like a curtain, closes off to you the life that once was so real and true, if only for an instant.
And you think that it is gone forever. But that thought is both the seal of your tomb, and the emptiness from which all new things are born, and receive their spark of life.
Fear
Perhaps the greatest and most terrible power possessed by the darkness, is the ability it has to make itself appear greater and more terrible than it really is. Like certain lizards whose collars spread, or cats whose backs arch, giving them the appearance of larger creatures when confronted, evil seeks to present a more awful face than it has. The shadows of demons frequently loom larger and darker than the demons themselves, and even their countenances are deceptively hideous. They rarely swallow the souls who do battle with them; but they gobble up, by the millions, the ones who stand frozen, overwhelmed at the sight of the grotesque.
There is no evil in the world which does not pass, sooner or later, into good. But the evil which remains evil for the longest stretch of time is that evil which has yet to -- and may never -- befall us; and which accosts us only in the form of fear. Tragedy holds many in it's grip, but the fear of tragedy holds many more still. For every misfortune we fall prey to, there are a thousand we fear. This is why, even in the midst of what seems like the most horrible catastrophe, we may be struck with a sudden feeling of relief. Some part of us relaxes, as if to say, "Finally, it has happened. At last, I can stop fearing it."
The Great And The Small
God loves what is small, embraces what is fragile, and shelters what is weak. We become godlike, not by loving God, but, by loving ourselves and one another. Loving God is easy. The devil could do it. Loving flawed humanity is what the angels are enjoined to practice, and what the Lord alone has made perfect, in the person of Christ. To hell with the ideal! A man must learn to love himself. And to love his neighbor as himself. Only then will his love be godlike.
Does this mean we should not value, celebrate, and aspire to what is great; to noble things, like passion, courage, wisdom, honesty, depth, humor, heroism, persistence, and so on? Of course not. But we should be mindful of the limitations of the flesh, and endeavor to locate these noble things within what is small. For those who have eyes to see it, there is courage in a smile, and wisdom in a word. An apology can be an instance of heroism; not for everyone, and not all the time; but for some people, sometimes. Most importantly, we need to remember that love is paramount. All rules, laws, standards, and principles are secondary; they are provided only for the sake of love; and when permitted to take presidence over love, have already lost their only good.
All judgement which begins and ends in God, and is worthy of the name "judgement", begins and ends in a loving acceptance. Before the activities of men are regarded, regard is kept for the One who moves and directs the courses of all men's paths. We all "live and move and have our being" within a taut and perfectly woven web of causation, as it emanates from God. We are not without a subtle kind of freedom, but the extent to which we may stretch the web is negligible; no man rises very far above the station of his birth and blood but by the grace of God. Hence, it is not difficult to see how a task, which may be performed without difficulty by one person, may be a veritable triumph for another. Only slightly less clear, is how a behavior which may be a temptation, the performance of which would result in postive harm, for one man, may be a mitzvah when performed by another. Yet, notwithstanding distinctions like these, which are considerable, it should be understood that, before God, neither action expresses more than the subtlest twitch of freedom. The web is tightly woven, and we move as though by inches, yet every inch is auspicious. The great is manifested in the small.
The Reason Why
However deeply we plumb the so-called "whys and wherefores" of material and abstract phenomena, mapping out the apparent roots and purposes of things, we never really arrive at any actual reasons. All we ever learn is "how". We ultimately perceive the intersection of various laws, and how they conspire to support particular phenomena, but without the intellectual and moral gratification we seek. What we discover is only that nothing, no argument, no design, could ever justify the rape, killing, or starvation of a child, or the countless other horrors we see every day under the sun, -- but that, despite this lack of purpose or reason, it is still possible to make our peace with God. The love of God is capable of dissolving all that the intellect cannot resolve. It's not so much that one's questions are answered by this love, but that, gradually, one's grip on the questions relaxes, and they cease to be an issue. Somehow, even the most righteous indignation is forgotten in the experience of God's love. But do not think for a moment that the true love of God is an opiate, that numbs us to the sufferings of our fellow sentient beings. Rather, it is that fullness of affectionate concern, which empowers and motivates us to share our love, and our entire selves, with the world.
Empathy
In order to identify ourselves with the sufferings of one man, or the enlightenment of another, it is necessary to go beyond the narrow confines of the personal self. It is because such vicarious experience is possible that one is able to say, with Paul, "As sin entered the world through the diobedience of one man (Adam), so is salvation come upon all men through the fidelity of one man (Jesus)." And whether we follow in the footsteps of Christ, or merely imagine, with the fervor of a holy empathy, ourselves standing in his place, and speaking as he spoke, the result is the same: transcendence. That such a man lived enriches the life of every man; for no man can think, even for a moment, of Christ, or Christian Love, without feeling inside himself the stirrings of the Holy Spirit. Christ, the name (or "Word") of God, is enough to invoke the grace of a genuine presence. God is never farther than our remembrance of Him.
Metaphor
Metaphor is the mark of all Sanskrit; to see metaphors is to read from The Book of Life. A metaphor is a bridge between peaks; where there is distinction metaphor illumines a common identity. Metaphor is meandering as truth is; sure-footed is light-footed.
Action
I thought that, if I could only adjust my perception, and get it to accord with some perfect, mystical vision of truth, then everything would make sense. Somehow, the crooked line would be straight, and the rape of a child, just the thinnest veil, concealing the soul's benediction. All chaos would reveal itself as an ingenious kind of order. All evil would be the greatest and most mysterious form of good. My lifestyle, I imagined, would not change, -- or, would not have to change. Anything that transpired here, in the outer, material world, -- any and all things marked by various characteristics, -- would, ultimately, cease to exist as separate, distinct, and actual realities; hence, nothing I did, or did not do, would bear the slightest actual significance. The consequences of my actions, and the willing of one course of action over another, would cease to disturb my quietude, for I would have anchored myself in the true, harmonic vision of eternity. All my thoughts, deliberations, choices and actions would be centered in the higher will of God, and in a very palpable sense, would cease to exist for me. But this hasn't happened.
Instead, I have discovered something too simple to overlook, but too solid to confront and dismantle by the power of analysis alone. I have discovered what, to many men, men of action, requires no introduction, and is far too obvious to be given more than a moment's thought. I have discovered a world so substantial, dense, and close to home, that I can only marvel now at not having seen it. But, then, I was a philosopher, a thinker, and my entire orientation and way of being inclined me to look upon things with suspicious, far away eyes; to see beyond, around, over, beneath, and through things; -- in short, not to see things at all; to be blind. What I discovered is only the world. And that, behind this world, there was no deeper reality, which only the mind, soul, or spirit may touch. Behind this world, if such an expression has any place in use, there is only action. I discovered action.
Like so many before me, hamstrung by thought or crippled by insight, I emerged from the adolescence of philosophy with a profound conviction in the inadequacy and ineffectuality of pure contemplation. The truth, I found, was infinitely more plain and prosaic than philosophy, -- or, god forbid, poetry, -- would have it. The truth, which Abraham Lincoln articulated to my perfect satisfaction, is "When I do good I feel good, and when I do bad I feel bad,". These feelings, that something was not right with the world, were not mistaken or illogical impressions. They were not unconscious symbols of a frustrated perception, unable to conceive of the great and eternal, underlying order of natural and man-made events. No! These simple feelings, which I had looked upon with suspicion, and thought to annihilate by the power of pure insight, were, in fact, telling the truth. What the tragic Prince Hamlet discovered, I discovered. I only hoped it was not too late for me "to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing, end them"; to take action. And to be the man of principles, who lives by them, rather than the man of philosophies, who lives only in his head; and struggles desperately to reduce all principles to phantoms, when they ought to be raised to manifestations!
My friends, the material world is only false insomuchas it exists to bear the fruit of our selfish intentions. But where your intentions align with your highest principles, and your actions proceed therefrom, then, the material realm is a reality you can accept and enter into positive -- even amiable -- relations with.
Don't seek for what is real in the realm of the empty and the abstract. Feel, here and now, the presence of your emotions, your empathy, your conscience. There is no insight; no truth; nothing to see. Only "Be the change you wish to see in the world" (Gandhi). Don't immitate the monkeys, who see, hear, and speak no evil; or the ostrich, with her head in the sand. See it, hear it, and say what you have seen and heard. Stare injustice in the face, and do not turn the other cheek to look the other way. Your voice is needed. Your indignation is righteous. Do not silence yourself, and imagine you have silenced the devil. Do not seek complacency, and believe you are bringing peace. Do not lull your firey soul to sleep, to wander in dreams of spirit. Here is the world. Here are the hungry. Here is the greed that starves and deceives them. Do not stand aloof, puzzling out the meaning. Give censure or give strength. Play your part. Be real!
The World
The material universe IS the spiritual universe. We must love the world, or spend eternity despising Her.
Those noble truths, beyond all human endeavor, are cold monuments, carved in ether; but the Lord is here with us; in the world; in the flesh. Here is sickness, sadness, hunger, accident, loss and death. Where else is your love so needed and desired? What purpose or work have you, more sacred and pressing than this? Look to your brothers, that they may stand washed in a heavenly light; do not stare yourself blind, scouring the sun.
Some of the highest adepts have wandered off, and left us, to investigate the incorruptible spheres. Let us pray that they return, with wisdom to raise up the world. And we, who seek to exalt ourselves to heavenly heights, -- let us seek, rather, to exalt the world, and the entire creation of the Father. Truly, the world is our proper sphere. May we cease to long for vain infinities! May we, rather, long for the vision to know the world in Her honesty and glory. She does not deceive us, though we often wish that she would, and endeavor to believe that she does.
The Penitent Heart
When you become weary, as I have become weary, then, don't you become an enemy to life and the living?.. don't you feel that the song in your heart is a sad one, unfit to sing... and don't you stop listening to your own sad heart... and sheepishly move away, to dwell somewhere else, in dark, half-consoling distractions... dont you feel branded a traitor to the human spirit... and doesn't everyone see in your eyes the anxiety and contempt you try to hide... the angst that wells up from the beginning of the world, with nowhere to go... the sputtering live-wire of undirected rage, that bends back upon the handler, and bites the fleshy wrist like an electric asp... aren't you the body's curse... the dry cock that scours the pagan streets with a criminal hunger... and ends in choked ecstasies, discharged on rough sheets, where shame hangs like a musk,... hadn't you better keep it to yourself, cage'd angel... cull the crust from your eyes, and sit there starving, well-behaved... waiting for the death that only comes to whet your appetites for sleep and dreams... aren't you a prize for sore eyes... demoralized... praying under your breath like it was a crime... a waste of God's precious time.
Evil
Evil's like a black hole, or a black sun. Some people can go their whole lives with blinders on, but then something happens and they have to look. Somebody gets really sick, or hurt, or dies, and they have to look. It's staring them in the face and they have to look. And then there's the pull. It's romantic, morbid, and so now they want to look. They can't look away. It's got 'em. That's how I see it. Evil's real. It's there. And you can look. Just don't stare at it. For God's sake, don't stare at it. Stare at it too long and you'll go blind.
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