The Work In Progress

I view my life with the eyes of a true romantic artist; therefore, I deem it such an ugly, sordid, lop-sided thing that the only way to make of it something beautiful, something lofty and symmetrical, would be to cut it short; whether by martyrdom or simple self-slaughter. I can see no better way to finish the piece, nor am I zealous to belabour it and, ultimately, render it more monstrous than it is now. Nonetheless, I lack the resolution to stop.

I don't know whether it is a problem of having too much, or too little will. I can go on, but cannot lay down.

And that is, after all, what it means to partake of the authentic reality of God. In a certain sense, one must lay down one's life. Suicide,  of a kind, is the manner of sacrifice required. "Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it."

All the professions of belief, all the prayers mouthed, every ritual blindly endured, must amount to little, if anything, apart from this. To enter the pure, eucharistic silence, the liturgy of the soundless Word, it is necessary to relinquish one's will. It is not man, animated by his own flesh and blood, who takes the sacrament to his lips; -- but God who, by the power of His grace, makes all things new. His flesh, His blood, must become active in us. But there is nothing within us capable of effecting that miracle save Christ Himself, who dwells within. We have only to be still and wait, in order to know that He is the Lord, our God.

Still, we wish to be hospitable, and to make preparations for the arrival of the one who has, in fact, never left us. We fuss with many things, creating such an uproar that we cannot hear His gentle voice. "Surely," we must think, "His knock will rouse us like a clap of thunder when the time comes." Alas, the time is now, and has always been. Who can unlatch the door to one who dwells already in the innermost chambers of the place? Yet, by some charitable effort, we wish to invite Him in, as though He were not already the Master of the house! And, what's more, to serve Him, as if He were not already the Servant of all!

Man is like an impatient apprentice who seeks his Master's approval by attempting to complete the masterpiece which was intended purely for his edification, and to which he was meant only to bear silent, respectful witness. Or, more aptly, a toddler who has wandered into the studio of his artist-father, with the same misguided desire for approval. Imagine DaVinci returning to find his "Last Supper" converted into a child's finger-painting. Imagine his expression of mingled horror and indulgence as he discovers the child, all covered in red paint and irrepressibly proud of it.