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.