The Tree of Life

What materialists are wont to call abstraction is, in fact, the realm of subtler sense; not a delusional contradiction of, nor a mystical alternative to, the dense material and sensory world, but, rather, a natural refinement of it; the world itself, progressed to the inevitable apex and terminus of laws consitent with it. If the seed or origin of a thing is natural, the fruit or end of it cannot be unnatural. Supernatural is not unnatural, but more natural.

A metaphysician is only a higher type of sensualist. An idealist is only an extreme kind of pragmatist. Truth disdains neither the world, nor the world within the world, but is at home in both places, and sees them as one.

Novalis wrote, "Philosophy is homesickness, the desire to be everywhere at home." A wise man, then, is one who is equally at ease on land or sea; in the concrete or the so-called abstract. Each leads him to the other; he drops anchor so that he may again set sail, and vice-versa. To such a one, how shall the land ever be entirely divided from the sea, the husk from the seed, or the world from God? The world only inspires him with God, and God only inspires him with the world.

Shall we say of the creature's shell, "It is natural," and of the creature, "It is divine,"? If one out grows the other, it is only by growing out of the other; in sympathy with the other, and under the protection of the other.

The flower bursts the bud with all the force of the bud, and of the stalk that unites them both. The lotus does not rise above the mud without being firmly rooted in the mud. And one might imagine Saint George unable to stand (unable, in fact, to be Saint George) unless it is upon the neck of a subdued serpent.

The same strength which was in the opponent has transferred itself to the hero. It has not been obliterated, lost, or spilt beside the blood. That same strength, or spirit, has been transformed in accordance with divine law; not in contradiction to natural law, but in continuation, refinement, fulfillment, and fruition of it.

The Devil, much like a restless child, ought to be patiently endured, consoled, and, at times, gently instructed. Satan is not some external entity or force, acting upon and exciting the passions toward unproductive ends, but, rather, a title given to describe, under a single head, all the immature and unskilled expressions of the passions. Like God, Satan is also within us, and, indeed, Christ himself is nothing if not the Devil transformed; disciplined and reformed by the Grace of God which is in us.

This secret is hinted at in the life of the chief apostle Paul, who was also the reformed murderer Saul, and who loved God with the same fervor with which he formerly persecuted Him. The passions are not dissipated by grace, but, along with the man who contains them, they are converted. "And he said unto me, 'My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

To some, the crucifixion is a poor symbol, a sado-masochistic spectacle, which draws attention "downward", into the flesh and blood and mud of the world, and not "upward", into the spirit and love and light of heaven. But if we are to ever encounter divinity 'on earth, as it is in heaven', we will have to begin on earth, and endeavor to locate the spirit, love, and light of heaven precisely in the flesh, blood, and mud of the world. Approached and contemplated in the proper spirit, -- that is, with an open heart and mind, -- this is what the image of the crucifixion is rather perfectly designed to do. The more terrible the afflictions, the more noble the sacrifice they reveal.

Here, there is no dodging of accounts. The abject things of this world are not placed out of sight and out of mind, but, instead, are spiritualized. Light is not carried 'upwards', out of darkness, but, fearlessly, brought to illuminate the very depths. Good is not superimposed on the world, or spirit on the flesh, but shows itself emerging directly therefrom.

In a very meaningful sense, Christ was not so much given to the world by God as he was given, or given back, to God by the world. Likewise, the cross was not so much planted on Golgotha as it was grown there, and we cannot know how deeply it has pierced the earth, or how intimately its root is coiled around the 'heartseed' of the world.

Nor was Christ grafted onto the stalk by mortal hands, but he hung there as fruit, ripe from the Tree of Life, that the hands of men might pluck him down. In this vision, the cross is not brown and dead, but green and bursting with new life. Christ, annointed by the blood of his sacrifice, gleams as red and bright as any berry on the branch, to catch the roving eyes of every wanderer in search of spiritual nourishment and desirous to taste the supernatural sweetness of love.