Turning

I am withdrawing from others in ways which might seem alarming, except that I am drawing closer to my contemplation, -- if not yet closer to my God. The world is no place for me. My pride, shame, and weakness all drive me underground. There is earth between myself and the light. The world has closed my accounts, and I have no alternative but to present myself as a beggar and a spirit at the window of the Lord.

How has sorrow pressed such exquisite ejaculations from the souls of men? Is all tribulation merely the painful recollection of former "glory in the flower... splendor in the grass"? Is it only in the night of agonizing self-criticism and spiritual assaults that we come to fully appreciate those sun-drenched joys which we only half-knew in the having?

Joy does not know herself until she suffers. And no man clings to the heavens so desperately as one who has lost his foothold in the world; to whom the sweetest fruit has become bitter, and the earth itself has become a torture; for it reminds him of what was, or half-was, and can never be.

One must come to see that, without God, we are in hell. There is no hope. No comfort. No light. No escape from this mad, grotesque pageant of incurables. Only in God, Christ, Mary, and the contemplation of the Saints, -- and only in friendships which vibrate in answer to these higher strings, -- can we safely trust to find nourishment for our souls.

If the Lord does not always cradle us, but sometimes chastens us as well, at least, he does not insult our intelligence, or our soul's dignity, with matters of light import. He speaks to us of nothing but destiny and questions of calling, because he calls us to fulfill a great destiny. He wants us to love what is good, and his judgment searches our souls, to see that we have not deceived ourselves as to the nature of the good, and sunk into the worship of idols.

For the world loves mediocrity, and burns offerings to it. But we who have loved beyond the world must suffer the light of scrutiny to rattle in the secret chambers of our hearts, scouring all impurities; exposing without compromise everything that is beautiful but not absolutely beautiful; good but not absolutely good; holy but not absolutely holy.

God is a jealous god because he is perfect. Who clings to him lets go of lesser attractions. At first, the lover of God wishes only to speak with those who have known the object of her affections, and who can give her some news of the Beloved. Later, she will settle for only the undisturbed presence of the Bridegroom himself.

The soul in love with God is greedy for the greatest, too spoiled to stomach the news of this world. Like a sick and stubborn child, he spits up what is served, and whines constantly for a Word from his Divine Mother.

It is true, his health depends on seeking new heights; rarified airs. Gradually, the Word of God becomes his daily bread (what else can sustain him?), and he gnaws a little hunk of it as he traverses the mighty cliffs, the valleys, gorges, riverbanks, and peaks of contemplation, his back against the world.