Thursday, January 16, 2014
I truly think I am powerful, but in point of fact I am helpless in the face of my sin.
Gurdjieff's remorse of conscience is just a set of words to me until I sense it as an inner force that shows me this. The lies and contradictions I engage in , which are cumulative, lie within me as the foundation of my outer Being; yet I don't sense this. Only the humility brought by a serious emotional shock, one where I truly see how confused and subjective things in me are, can awaken any part of the truth about this in me; and then I see how I lie about all such things.
I speak of my own experience here, not of others, or of some philosophical hypothesis; I speak of that fear and trembling that arises in the uttermost depths of my Being as I see my helplessness.
Yes, this moment has all things in it: beauty of women, grace of friendship, the touch of a blue sky, and the kindness of strangers. They run through me like water; and the sorrow each one of them provokes reminds me of how far I fall short, in the midst of all this beauty, which is Grace itself, and Love. How bountiful the Lord; and how unworthily I come to Him. I should pray; bent knees and folded hands are the language of contrition. But I am old and oft grown out of that habit; as though a long race run alone entitled me to honors I have not yet earned. I weary in my pursuit of the Lord; and always I forget that in the end it is always He that comes to me.
These are the times of trouble, and these are my wages of woe; not for any single act, but all of them. I would tear my heart out as an offering if I thought it would do any good, but the Lord wants all our hearts intact; intact, and contrite. So even a sacrifice of blood is not enough; only a sacrifice of Love will do, and Love, in this most noble guise, enters the room alone as sorrow.
No wonder our Lord hung Himself on a cross. What else could he do? The act is whole within itself; it contains this mystery.
I look at this world, and how I am in it; and I would die to it, if I knew but how.
Yet no permissions have been given.
How well I think Mr. Gurdjieff knew this; and how lovingly and boldly, in the midst of his own sin, which was as grave as mine, I think, he found the courage to speak to us of it.