AS FAR AS I CAN SEE

Life is like a school bus – it picks up and drops off.

Our responsibilities, provided we tend to them, are usually the major factor in shaping our lives.  Where we go, when we eat, where and when we sleep, how we spend our hours – these are all largely determined by our various responsibilities.

A roofer’s life has a very different shape from a nurse’s life, as do both from a jockey’s life or a banker’s life, or a farmer’s or a philosopher’s.  A sailor is very differently constrained and occupied than a shepherd or a mother or a plumber or a slave – all because of their varying responsibilities.

When our responsibilities change, the shapes of our lives change.  When their responsibilities disappear and are not replaced, lives, now unanchored, become unmoored, like driftwood, become almost indistinguishable, like sheep.

Prisoners in the penitentiary, even while retaining separate personalities, lead lives that are materially similar and spiritually uniform.  Incarcerated and tended to, they are ironically perfectly liberated, freed from their responsibilities.  That’s why the lives of long-term prisoners tend to become small and picayune, vanishingly uninteresting, colorless and vague.

This is the great temptation of freedom – its demonic allure – the temptation to escape the burdens of responsibility, to render service to no one except oneself.

That’s why St. Paul warns us not to abuse our freedom.  That’s why Christ’s final instruction was Feed my sheep.

And that’s why all demons are wraiths.

There are few thoughts that enter our heads that wouldn’t improve for idling there awhile before leaving.

Jacob got the better of Esau, we say, because we’re using a worldly standard to compare their rewards – in this case the ‘dollar’ value of a plate of stew versus that of a substantial inheritance.  But Esau wasn’t stupid: his reality at the moment was an overwhelming hunger, and that changed the equation.  To someone dying of thirst, a drink of water is truly more precious that diamonds and pearls.

Jesus notes the blessedness of those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, that is, obedience to God’s will, because they value the same thing he does.

The final temptation in the wilderness was the whole world versus obedience to God’s will.  It wasn’t a sacrifice for Jesus to choose obedience, because of his own hunger.

TWO BUMS TALKING:  “YOU GOT A FAMILY?”  “HAD A BROTHER NAMED BILL, BUT HE DISAPPEARED ONE DAY WHEN HE WAS TWENTY-TWO, AND WE NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN.”  “HE RAN AWAY?”  “NAW.  GOT A JOB.”

On more than one occasion Jesus speaks in a cautionary way about wealth.  In response, we often assure ourselves that it’s not the wealth itself that’s problematic, but rather our attitude towards it.  Echoing Paul, we maintain stoutly that it’s not the possession but the love of money where evil is rooted, coyly implying that the soil of our own character remains free of such corruption – that vast wealth would meet its master in our hands.

Of course, everyone’s a hero in his own mind until his mettle is tested on the battlefield. 

And in fact, many qualities of our actual characters – as opposed to our own self-conceptions – await opportunity for proving.  Fidelity remains hypothetical until beckoned by the Siren-song, as the cancer ward provides a tribunal for professions of religious confidence.

Excessive wealth reveals true character in the same way, and the quality tested for is humility, the absence of self-esteem in one’s dealings with others and with God.  Which leads to the two reasons why Jesus, among all the various circumstances that can expose our hypocrisies and self-deceptions, singles out wealth for special status.

The first is because humility lies at the very foundation of the heavenly existence, as codified in the first beatitude: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for of them is the kingdom of heaven.

And the second is because it’s a test no one can pass.

In the school of hard knocks, you get the exam first, then the lesson.

Jesus spoke enigmatically, ambiguously, vaguely, beseechingly, imagistically, wistfully, poignantly, trustingly, peremptorily … because those are the qualities of language itself, and he was the Word made flesh.

The tools of verbal communication are to the individuality of the speaker as lines on a map are to reality, purposeful to an impossible and forlorn intention, that of oneness with another.

Heavenly communication will be ontological, not conceptual.

Following ones heart often leads to heartburn.

Lemmings follow their hearts.

Why is Satan referred to as the father of lies?  Of all the human failings and transgressions – thievery, adultery, pride, rape, murder – why identify the personification of the most unholy, the antithesis of righteousness, as the spiritual source of an almost universal misdemeanor?  Lies can be harmless, after all. They can be helpful, even generous and kindly on some occasions.  We lie to protect someone’s feelings, to maintain polite society, to negotiate contracts.  Almost everyone does it, almost every day.  Lying isn’t even illegal, except in certain contractual contexts. 

Here’s another question.  Why is it so devastating when a friend lies to you?  When a friend tells you a lie, it’s as if you’ve been thrust into senselessness, into a world without foundation.  Husbands and wives lie to each other regularly, parents and children lie to each other … but friends don’t.  So when it happens, it’s not just an occasion for resentment or exasperation or even forgiveness.  It’s an occasion for uncanny despair.

No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not understand what his master is doing. But I have called you friends …