The Sacrificial Ideal

What if God somehow burst into history in a singular way; what if he became like us, came to earth, proved himself with eloquence and miracles, proclaimed his unconditional love and forgiveness, -- and we killed him?

Shall we mention that he rose from the dead?

OF COURSE, he rose from the dead. He was God.

But we killed him.

Wrath, sloth, greed, shallowness, indifference, impatience, etc. -- the collective sins of his contemporaries determined that Christ's gospel be rejected and that he suffer death without mercy on the cross.

It has been a slow acknowledgment, these twenty centuries, that whoever spoke this message of love was speaking truth. In many places today, truth still cannot be heard, and it is thought blasphemous to speak more than half-truth. The people are blinded by the fire of Christ's life and words, and can receive only partial reflections and distortions thereof. We want to prosecute crimes, swear oaths, wed, breed, own property, and kill -- all things which he expressly forbade as being unhealthy to the spiritual life of man.

And though the Master even makes endless allowances for our weakness, and though, no matter how often we turn back, and turn our backs on him, he still invites us to follow, -- nonetheless, we continue to distort his teaching, or else reject it altogether.

What we ought to do is humble ourselves to the awesome gravity of the Christian life; equally acknowledging the strictness of the law and the leniency of the lawgiver.

Whatsoever we do, we are assured of God's forgiveness and his love, but there is only one way which he blesses and calls us to; absolute abandonment to the Holy Spirit; desiring nothing before God, and nothing but God. Christ decrees that all men should be beggars, until all doors are thrown open, and bachelors, until everyone is embraced. He understands that ideals are meant to be lofty, and that Christian ideals should be the loftiest of all.

At the same time, he plumbs the depths of our depravity, and because he knows what we struggle with, he makes concessions to our frail humanity, such that we need never fear his judgement, though we have fallen so far short of what is good.

The ways of God are so perfect that we might say they are not intended to be fulfilled by any man; but, being infinite in scope, are meant, rather, to pose an equal and insurmountable challenge to all men. How else can we learn to depend entirely on the grace of God? It is essential that even the saints fall short of perfection.

We should know this. But two thousand years have passed and we are still crucifying the Word of God; corrupting the gospel for which Christ lived and died.

Placing limits on love, we place shackles on Jesus. Calling ourselves good, we forget the meaning of the Word. Our standards are low, but our punishments are severe, while the standards of the Lord are high, but he knows nothing of judgement; only mercy.

Let us embrace Christ on his own terms, not ours, or let us shun him altogether, as our ancestors have done. Either way, we would not inflict the further insult of a Judas Kiss; pretending to embrace his statutes, while secretly perverting them.

Is it so terrible to have an ideal, or to recognize an ideal?

Just because we come up short, ought we to lower all things to our height? Must we compromise our vision, when we compromise ourselves? Is it so difficult to bear any discrepancy between the two, that we must turn the moral world on its head, and put to death the one who came to give us life? For the law of Christ permits a man to fall, and to be exhonerated by grace, but it does not permit him to drag the law itself down with him, in order to exhonerate his crime as well as himself.

We killed God. We murdered our ideal. We covered it up. And now the ghost of Jesus, the Holy Ghost, haunts our churches, like a tell-tale heart. The ghost of the ideal... the buried heart of the world... will... not... rest.

God's Love

An artist is never so enamoured with the works he has created, masterpieces though they may be, as with the present work he has in hand. Not the perfected sculpture, but the stubborn, untamed block, intrigues, entices, and excites his creative inspiration. Likewise, the Lord is never so fond of his saints as of his sinners. God knows, the saints are full of graces, but the sinners are full of possibilities. And the saints, were they susceptible to envy, would no doubt envy us in a strange way, seeing that God is not yet done with us, and that it is our turn now; to discover his love for us, and to fall in love with him.

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Love is sufficient for the longings of the spirit. Love comforts and reproves, heals, tests, and strengthens, pacifies, invigorates, encourages, and instructs. To contemplate love is to make a study of all good things -- all God's things.

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Our love falters, sinks, recovers, and mounts up, but the love of God surrounds and infuses all that is. Our love is a trinket, little worth; a gift we are ashamed to give. His love is what upholds the world and makes it beautiful. We love him more or less, according to our moods. He loves us more each moment that we live.

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.

Wisdom

Wisdom is closer to instinct than insight. It is deeply engaged with the world, with life, with others, and with God. It is not something you know, but something you do, -- and something you are.

It would be foolish to speak of "making use" of wisdom, since wisdom itself is precisely the quality or condition of making use; wherein ability and will combine to produce those skillful utterances and actions we call wise. Even more foolish would be to speak of "not making use" of wisdom. Not making use is just unwise.

Being and acting are united in wisdom. A wise man acts by being. Because his actions are not separate from his being, they are rooted in God. It is God who is, and God who acts.

The works which are rooted in our depths are not performed by us, yet are the most natural and essential to us. In fact, all works are rooted in our depths, in God, and we only become identified with them to the extent that we are unconscious of their origin.

All actions ultimately proceed from the center of being, and everything is accomplished in the act of being.

Wisdom is being.

Behold what the Lord has made -- that it is enough; increase your knowledge of goodness -- and goodness is increased; magnify your understanding of God -- and God is magnified; perfect your appreciation of love -- and love is perfected.

If Wisdom were not beautiful, she would have no power to attract. If she were merely beautiful, she would have no power to hold. We learn to love Wisdom by finding her beautiful, but we stay in love because she is divine.

Coins

What is man? A messenger who begs for a Word from God,
and groans under the weight of the One he's received.

One cannot look upon goodness or the sun;
the conscience burns from shame and turns away,
or is blinded by pride, if it stares too long.

The Sun would be God, if not for the Night.

Sinners are busy with many things,
but the work of the saints is rest.

Even the peace of a wicked man is labor;
even the labor of a righteous man is peace.

Loving God begins with loving what is good.
Consider the simple, wholesome life of the saints.
Dwell on holy influences, and become as they are.

We could not love God if he had not shown himself to us,
and he could not show himself to us but by loving us.

God is a great mystery because of the world,
and the world is a great mystery because of God.

That you have permitted me to share in the wonder of contemplating you, O Lord, -- this is the grace which I am given. To read your word, and rend my heart. Not to covet an abundance of gifts for myself, but to reflect, and reflect upon, the gifts which already abound in your elect. Not to speak, but to become a worthy audience for those whom you, in your wisdom, have caused to speak. That the prayers of the devout might serve as answers to my own.

Lord, I am desolate amid your treasures! How deep is my ingratitude? You have opened your vaults and still I beg of you. You have given so much! The utterances of just and noble souls fill the world with your bounty. A bookcase, a single book, or even the Word, "Jesus!", is enough to purchase more wisdom than the world can spend; if one but knew how to redeem that coin. For the name of Christ is the gold which meets my hand, like magic, each time I reach for it; so that I become richest when I think myself poor. Lord, teach me to make use of this treasure!

Libraries are monuments of charity, where anyone may go and find gold enough to fill his pockets; that the soul, at least, if not the body of man, may never need to beg.

Nothing we do for God is entirely evil. Including evil.

That love exists -- that even the notion of love exists, is proof that God exists, and that he loves us.

Love is more precious than all the souls and objects it dotes on or upholds. Nothing is more to be loved than love.

Karma is the Law of Moses and Grace is the Law of Christ. Karma is comforting to the just and fearful to the wicked. It is the mercy of justice. Grace is comforting to the wicked and fearful to the just. It is the justice of mercy. Grace really means this: That goodness is always God's. No act of virtue can make that more secure, nor can any act of vice take it away. God has triumphed, once and for all, because goodness is superior to evil by definition. Any supposed advance on the part of evil is only a lie. No matter how persistently it exists, it can never surpass good. The Law of Karma depends upon some reckoning, to make straight what is crooked. But the Law of Grace depends upon nothing, and declares that evil can never win, even when it goes unpunished. Appearances aside, evil is its own punishment, -- its own hell; and good is its own reward, -- its own heaven.

It is innocent to be suspicious among the angels,
and suspicious to be innocent among the ghouls.

The virtuous contemplate virtue, not themselves. They are partakers of the eternal, and magnifiers of the present, because they give themselves over to what is greater than themselves.

At first, I believed, or tried to believe, because it was romantic. A good story. More than anything else, the story of Christ enthralled me. Later, I believed because it was my own.

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.

Léon Bloy

"Bloy is one of the greatest creators of images who ever walked the earth... Bloy's genius is neither religious, nor philosophical, nor human, nor mystical; his genius is theological and Rabelaisian. His work seems to have been written by Saint Thomas Aquinas in collaboration with Gargantua. His books are scholastic and gigantic, eucharistic and scatological, idyllic and blasphemous. No Christian can accept them, but no atheist can take comfort in them."
-- Remy de Gourmont

"Léon Bloy possesses a fire that brings to mind the ardour of the prophets -- an even greater ardour, I should say. Of course that is easily explained: his fire is nurtured by the dung-heap of modern times."
-- Franz Kafka

"The vehemence, bitterness, and scorn so often condemned in his work are, in fact, the outcry of a man of sorrow overwhelmed by the spectacle of a society indifferent to its spiritual destiny.... By nature a poet, totally oriented toward absolute values and intolerant of mediocrity, he sought through verbal violence to awaken his contemporaries to the reality of the supernatural combat in which their lives were involved. In his intemperate attacks on his fellow creatures, Bloy so antagonized both Catholics and non-Catholics that his work suffered from a conspiracy of silence. Yet many of his pages, for sheer power of language and poetic beauty, will always rank among the finest in French literature. Today, he has his admirers and might be considered to be the object of a cult."
-- The Columbia Dictionary of Modern European Literaure

"[Léon Bloy] believed himself a rigorous Catholic and he was a continuer of the Cabalists, a secret brother of Swedenborg and Blake: heresiarchs."
-- Jorge Luis Borges

One of the most intriguing, as well as overlooked, cultural figures of Belle Epoque France, Léon Bloy was a thwarted mystic, raging social reformer, and literary anarchist whose personal hardships were sublimated in dozens of novels, biographical studies, short stories, and poems, and in hundreds of articles, essays, and rants often circulated on the streets of Paris as scathing tracts and pamphlets. As a writer he was formed by many hatreds and humiliations. He spent his life in squalid poverty, waiting for a beatific vision which God denied him. His own suffering, and that of those around him, spawned in him a Hugoesque compassion for the downtrodden and the poor, and he became a savage critic of the prevailing order, the warts on whose epidermis he pointed out with a maniacal single-mindedness and a passionate intensity. Describing himself as a "grandiloquent wretch," Bloy was an outlandish medieval anachronism in the era of the newly erected Eiffel Tower, and managed to offend nearly everyone who was anyone in the Paris of his day. Behind his vilifications and vituperations, however, was not only an authentic genius fueled, like Juvenal's, like Swift's, by righteous indignation, but a genuine martyr, who wept in sympathy for the plight of "fallen humanity," and who felt himself the haunted conscience of all mankind. A great moral ironist in an age of negations, Bloy "called down the wrath of God upon the paltry convictions and the precarious equilibrium of a complacent society which put its trust in science and bourgeois virtues, while seeking the kind of tranquility that comes from silencing one's soul and forgetting God."

http://ajourneyroundmyskull.blogspot.com/2008/12/musings-and-thunderings-of-leon-bloy.html 

From the writings of Léon Bloy:

"Any Christian who is not a hero is a pig."

"I pray like a robber asking alms at the door of a farmhouse to which he is ready to set fire."

"There is but one sadness and that is for us not to be saints."

"Woe to him who has not begged! There is nothing more exalted than to beg. God begs. The Angels beg. Kings, Prophets, and Saints beg. The Dead beg. Everything that dwells in Glory and in Light begs. Why should anybody want me not to be proud of having been a beggar, and, especially, a thankless beggar?"

"I have always seen myself as being lower than the animals every time I have presumed to act otherwise than through love or the workings of love... Philosophy bores me, theology overwhelms me, words without love are meaningless to me, the reasonings of the wise seem to me a shadowy sewer, and the pride of the human mind makes me vomit."

"I live in a kind of heavy and stupid drunkenness, caused by the fumes of misery. I am sad by nature as one is by nature slight or fairhaired. I was born sad, deeply, horribly sad, and if I am possessed with the most violent desire for joy, it is by virtue of the mysterious law which attracts contraries... My nature alone was acting, obscurely. I instinctively loved unhappiness; I wanted to be unhappy. The very word 'unhappiness' carried me away with enthusiasm. I think I inherited this from my mother, whose Spanish soul was at the same time so flaming and so shadowed, and Christianity's main attraction for me has been the vastness of Christ's sorrows, the magnificent, the transcendent horror of His Passion... Who could believe that the very same man who sees so clearly the glory of God, who says things able to reawaken the courage of his brothers in despair, and who cannot speak of the Holy Trinity without weeping with love -- who could suppose that this same man is every day given over to the most violent temptations, and that he is not for a single instant master of his own heart?"

"I have meditated often and much upon suffering. I have come to the conclusion that only suffering, here below, is supernatural. The rest is human... When you die, that is what you take with you: the tears you have shed and the tears you have caused to be shed -- your capital of bliss or of terror. It is on these tears that we shall be judged, for the Spirit of God is always borne upon the waters..."

"It is always a good thing to see death, and I am happy this thought has filled you with the presence of God. Christians should constantly be leaning over the abyss."