On The Salvation Of The Soul

If man is without sin, then Christ is without sense; for Christ is the exemplar, but a man who stands by his own strength has no use for an exemplar to guide him. We who humble ourselves to the Master do so, not in abeyance to any supposed commandment or creed, but because we recognize our own imperfections and the righteousness of Jesus Christ.

Where we are weak, he is strong. Where we are conflicted, he is decisive, and speaks with the authority of God. His virtues are clear answers to the muddled questions of vice. He speaks for us, stands for us, dies for us, and becomes immortal, legendary, for the sake of all mankind. He is a light, not only to the nations, but to the ages as well. The poet-philosopher Novalis writes, "Martyrs are spiritual heroes. Christ was the greatest martyr of our species; through him has martyrdom become infinitely significant and holy."

The blessedness of Christ is not something in which man has some vicarious part, but, rather, it is that which kindles and enflames the native blessedness in the soul of man. Jesus is not some surrogate, fulfilling the duties of righteousness, so that man does not have to. What he has done, we also must learn how to do; for that is the very purpose for which he did it. If the love of Christ suffices to nullify the sins of mankind, it is only because love, and love alone, forgives and, ultimately, cleanses the sins of mankind. Love cannot rob the sin of its stench -- but can rob the soul of its sin. What Christ blesses, he transforms. If his blessing did not transform it, what purpose would there be in blessing it, and in what sense could it still be called blessed?

A man cannot sin and then say, "I am without sin, because I am with Christ!" Had he been with Christ, he would not have sinned. But, what he can say is, "In spite of my sin, I am beloved of God," because Christ has loved him; and, so, made God's love known to him.

God cannot take away from us the obligation -- indeed, the right, the honor, and the privilege -- to work out our own salvation, "in fear and trembling". Though we imagine there is nothing we would prefer more than to be handed the keys to all the treasures of heaven, in fact, no treasure in heaven can compare to the glory of having attained, by one's own merits, the grace of God; for that is the gift one gives oneself, if only in consenting to receive. For while it is true that grace falls everywhere, and is free, nonetheless, the Lord has left it in the hands of men to decide whether or not they will receive as freely what He has freely given.

To receive the grace of God is no small affair. It is not some prepared recitation of doctrines, codes, or creeds. It is not some subtle shift in the mind, whereby one suddenly "chooses to believe" this or that proposition. Rather, being receptive to grace is something which requires profound dedication; it is a commitment to lay oneself open, at every level of one's being ("with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength").

It is a recognition which penetrates to the very core of self; a recognition of one's utter dependence upon the assistance of a higher force; that one is flawed, and incapable of perfecting oneself without the grace of God; moreover, that nothing one does, no matter how good, can match the infinite goodness of God, but that one is, nonetheless, fit to be called a child of God, -- not because one has greatly loved God, but because one has been greatly loved by Him.

This is the paradox of divine marriage: One loves by being open to love.

Like the wolf in the old fairy tale, we may "huff and puff", and work ourselves into a frenzy, but, for all that, we cannot muster up great passions of soul; oceans of love, jungles of sympathy, and so on. We may stretch forth, and spread ourselves thin, for a little while, but we always curl back into that ineffectual, fetal tangle of disappointments from which we began. It is only when we realize that our efforts are useless, that we may discover the use of effortlessness.

It is our tendency to throw our arms in the air, to clasp our hands together, to wring our fists, and beat our chests, as if this would somehow garner the attention of the Most High. We think we must chant until we are blue in the face and our lips are past numb, before He will hear us. But we have always had His attention, and His ear has always been inclined in the direction of our tongue.

If years of meditation are required, it is not because God wishes to make us wait, or because He cannot approach us with greater speed. In fact, God is waiting for us, and is here. It is we who have difficulty perceiving what is directly before our eyes. How much peace He is offering! But we have first to calm down. How much love He exudes! But we have first to be tender. Most of all, we must learn how to be less than nothing; pure instruments of divine receptivity.

We are to listen, and to hear. We are not to speak, but to be spoken through; not to love, but to be channels of a love which bears no boundary and no equal. We must be ruled by something absolutely central to ourselves, yet utterly transcendant of ourselves. We must be fools for the wisdom of the moment, and live without thought of consequence. And all this, which seems to demand so much, demands only that we do nothing, -- or less; be nothing.