Monday, January 20, 2014

Resting one's head



Images from reproductions found at the Zhejiang Museum exhibits, Hangzhou, China

There comes a point in life when I question every single thing. 

It starts with the death of siblings and freinds, moves into the question of death itself, and ultimately extends into all the activities I engage in.

The world is constructed of facts, but I don’t live in that world. Everything I believe to be objective is subjective; and indeed, an energy from above inwardly forms a kernel of understanding that verifies this. So the truth is folded into life; but down at a very low level, within essence, which has no more than a tenuous toehold in the everyday. 

It is there, to be sure; but for the most part unacknowleged.

I keep obtaining the impression that my life is inherently sinful. There isn’t any part in me that isn’t already deviant, already fallen. This isn’t a question of morality- far from it, there is nothing about the matters of the everyday that applies here- it’s a question of relationship, of service, of worship; of the dedication of the inner world to receiving an energy that can inwardly form a connection to the higher.

Here, I fail; there is no part in me that is honest enough to serve. I can’t find any instances where my behavior meets the standards the Lord would have of us; and in my better parts I see only sympathy for those who I might otherwise hold in contempt. Indeed, the ordinary parts of me do just that; and yet our higher nature commits no such sin, because it is by its own very nature already compassionate.

So here I am, a man drenched in the action and wages of his own sin, who nonetheless somehow tastes the Love that ought to inform his inner action.

 What greater terror than to know both? An inner work is no cleared path to happiness; nor should it be. 

 There is no place here to rest one's head.

Hosannah.

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