Enraptured by love

The story is simple. He & She meet like all others meet. But something different occurs. Her scent incites something within Him. His scent incites something within Her. And the two respond adequately with some sense of struggle, but, with undefeatable success, the two become one.

            The eternal tale of love outlives the first He & She that ever enacted it. This is the last remaining tale of the ancient ways of that Garden, which we still unconsciously long to dwell in. Love is the last bit of ancient magic that still remains; the same magic that broke the stone table and brought Aslan back to life.

            The ancient ways interrupt the modern days. The Lord walks around spewing riddles we once knew how to solve: I require mercy, not sacrifice.

            Mercy. ἔλεος.

What is mercy?

            Sacrifice. Θυσία.

            What is sacrifice?

            Why do we demand Θυσία over ἔλεος?

            Why are we no longer enraptured by love?

The Complaint

The complaint: the overly verbalized dissatisfaction with the way things are in contrast to the way you wish things were.  

            It begins with a singular grunt—the last trace of our pre-linguistic form of communication. At other times, it begins with the slow audible exhale that carries no words but a very similar feeling of dissatisfaction with a hint of defeat.

            We compile words into a nonsensical complaint against any and all obstacles that come our way whether they are related or not to the first obstacle that led to our current state of dissatisfaction.

The world stands in opposition to our very being, killing slowly what we are if we permit it. Is this not the crime that we cry out against?

This thing—concept, project, assignment, task, personal issue—stands in our path, stripping us of the ability to remain the same: whether vile or virtuous.

Even in Christianity we find this. We find this crucified man, this Jesus of Nazareth, hanging on a cross, telling us that we cannot remain the same.

Who do we trust? Do we trust a world that promises wealth and happiness or a King whose kingdom is marked by a cross and suffering? Or do we trust ourselves? Do we trust our inner-self that hungers and thus ravages others to stay filled, leaving those we encountered scarce like pillaged villages?

Why does the King of the Jews, in his crucified state, call me more than the gold and the self? Why does his complain, “Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani,”* speak to me?

Why does this lunatic, who claimed to be God incarnate, move me both out of world and myself? Why can I no longer complain when I hear his complaint? What sadistic pleasure do I find in the vulnerable image of a crucified God? What satisfaction do I find for my suffering in his?

All satisfaction.

A world that tries to quench my need with gold and objects does nothing for me. The inner-self, which destroys others in order to try to feed itself, remains as hungry and unsatisfied as before. But this crucified man, incarnated God, hanging, bleeding, dying slowly on a cross, strengthens me, encourages me; he speaks to me.

*“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Who am I?

Writer. Philosopher. Theologian. Preacher. C.S. Lewis enthusiast. Covenant Group Leader. Writing tutor. Opinion Page Editor.

These are the descriptive titles most people would label me with.

“Miguel, yeah I know him. He loves C.S. Lewis.”

But the eternal questions of “Who am I? What am I here for?” are ones that plague me. We are all just wondering fools unconscious or semiconscious, if conscious at all, about our desire for meaning.

I don’t see myself as any of these descriptive words. I do love these roles. I even partake in them, but they are as much me as this essay is me.

God has the statement, “I am who I am.”

I have these:

“I am . . . unsure of what I am.”

“I am . . . a creation of I Am Who I Am.”
   

In the hours between today and yesterday, I found myself talking to my friend Hallie about life and Jesus.

I found myself confessing that my understanding of God’s love had reached a new level; it no longer had to be embodied in the people around me. I have come to understand even in the absence of people that God loves me. When I am stripped of friend or family member, of people all together, I can still feel a love coming from God.

I am conscious, if I am conscious of anything, of this desire for a God who I am unable to fully know. A God who conveys love in a crucified man.

Daily, I seek God through prayer. I yearn for God.

Lewis once said, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

That quote helped me understand. It helped me see my desire as one pertaining to God.

As Christians, as humans, we easily get lost in this fallen world because it is all we know. We only know pain, suffering, injury, violence. Ask anyone on this earth about those words, and that person will respond with real examples.

We only know falleness. We yearn to know fullness.

We are so used to hearing the cacophonous music the world seems to be playing. We miss hearing the euphonious song that God calls us into.

In the midst of talking with Hallie, I was able to express my yearning, my longing, for this God. A God embodied in Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus who we ask daily for simple earthly pleasures but who gives us the gift of eternal life, the pleasure of being always with Him.

I guess, “I am . . . the creation of I Am Who I Am.”

But . . .

I am also God’s beloved. And that is a title I fully embrace. I am satisfied.

Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol!

 You drank fine wine from the blood of grapes.

-Deuteronomy 32:14

            Wine is not all that good. At best, it taste like acetone. But I have to admit drinking wine makes a person look classy. My only reason for even trying to drink wine was based on my slight obsession, borderline idolatry, with C.S. Lewis.

            C.S. Lewis is basically my moral compass; he did it, therefore, I can do it—idolatry. I honestly don’t like alcohol. Thus, I don’t have the need to use the whole “Jesus drank wine” to justify an abnormal intake of alcoholic beverages*, but I still wanted to try to like wine. After all, if Jesus and C.S. Lewis both drank wine, then there must be something to it.

            Conclusion: There is nothing to it.

            I went to Basaam and had a glass (tiny, like I mean tiny; kid size) of what they called “dessert” (this term is used loosely in the wine world) wine. The woman was kind enough to let me taste it a little before having a glass. The small taste was good. But, just like sin, the wine only tasted good for a little bit and then it was just nasty.

            My dreams of liking wine died.

            People are lying about things being good when they add the phrase “it’s an acquired taste.” The phrase, in my opinion, is entirely condescending. It is basically, [read the following in an old southern woman accent), “Oh child, this here, is only enjoyable to someone who has drunk it for years. You don’t get it now, but you’ll get it soon.”

            “Acquired taste” really means: After days, months, years of torturing myself to drink this, I have finally trained myself to think that this taste/experience is enjoyable. Kind of like an assassin learning not feel bad about all the people he has killed. The assassin has acquired the taste for killing.

            My feelings for wine, and all alcoholic beverages are the same for coffee.

            I mean, one can cover poop with as many substances that one likes, but it will still be poop.

            Coffee tastes good with tons of creamer and sugar, basically creamer and sugar taste good, but we add coffee to feel better about our consumption of such unhealthy things.

            All drinks taste better without the alcohol in them.

            Thus, to grapes everywhere, I am sorry that your juices are fermented.

            And I arrive at the same conclusion as my friend Hallie, adults just  pretend wine tastes good.

            Therefore, if your drank taste bitter, then blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol!

*Jesus did indeed have wine, but he did not have Patron, mimosas, margaritas, or tequila shots. I’m not saying those things are bad, but the Jesus had wine excuse only covers so much ground. 

Neither Can Floods Drown Love

Many Waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.

Song of Solomon 7:7

I hate to admit that all those May 21^st posters did eventually have an effect on me. After reading one everyday, I came to have many end-of-the-world nightmares, starting with zombie invasion dreams, which were thankfully replaced by flood dreams (floods I can deal with, but zombies are a continuous threat).

Adding to my end-of-the-world thoughts was Madeleine L'Engle's book Many Waters, which deals with the Story of Noah in contrast to the verse from Song of Solomon about love not being drowned by floods (written above).

In response to all this, I became very aware of my personal standing with God. I began to wonder whether I would have been counted amongst those in Noah’s ark or those drowned in the floods.

In one of my flood dreams, I found myself amongst those in the flood. I remember the fear of being drowned as I ran from the rising waters. In one instance I remember trying to climb to the top of a subway track that was above the waters. As I climbed I saw the waters approaching, threatening to take me with them. When I finally got to the top of whatever I was climbing, I realized I could not reach the tracks. Hopelessly, I reached out my arm knowing I had climbed in vain. Yet, my arm was caught by another arm, which pulled me up. To my surprise it was a young lady barely over five feet tall. She had long black hair and tan skin.

Then, my dream restarted from her perspective. She stood at a train station, waiting anxiously for her turn to purchase a ticket. She sensed the waters were going to come soon. She purchased the ticket and sure enough the earthquake came, which gave her more of an incentive to speed up. She made her way up to the tracks, not wasting a second. I remember trying to urge her to hurry as I witnessed everything, knowing that my life depended on her timing. Sure enough she arrived and pulled me up. I survived the flood.

I woke up feeling reassured as I recalled the instance when the arm grabbed me from above. The arm was strong. I was surprised at the fact that i had not flinched or even slightly jerked my arm back. I felt safe the second I was touched.

After that dream, I was no longer fearful of the impending doom that those billboards foretold. I had the reassuring feeling that God had his watchful eye on me. After all, “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.”