A man is not justified by the works of the Law but through faith in Christ Jesus, so that we may be justified by faith in Christ and not by the works of the Law.
I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.
Galatians 2:16, 20
We are all lonely inside, even when we don’t feel it. There’s an insatiable ache that we pour religion, significan others, work, children, booze, friends, and activities down in an attempt to find meaning in our solitary existence. Yet that solitary existence consists of trillions of individual cells obeying a “survive” order. That cellular conglomeration that we call by name lives for more than mere chemical responses, though; for more, even, than our societal interactions, although those define us. Do we, Plato-like, hold out for an ideal interaction that hovers just beyond our grasp, so that the final puzzle piece to fall in place will form a conglomeration that glows with a perfection unimaginable? Each interaction sketches some part of that desire, each irretrievable word bricks in the foundation of an edifice for which we seek the blueprint. Here is the blueprint.
If life is the night and death is daybreak, are we living always in twilight or predawn dimness? Each day your heart beats you breathe your way one day closer to a pine bed. Does that mean we each live in a brightening dawn, where only those near death can truly feel the power of rays that really matter?
It’s living apocalypse as a way of life. The darkness seems to deepen all around, tightening from the East and from the West, from within and without, from the carcinogenic apple you ate at lunch to the hormone-doped milk you drank with dinner to the thick air filtering through your lungs even now. I was told last Thursday, “If you’re not depressed it’s only because you’re not paying attention.” Another statement resonated, bell-like, within the chambers of my immaterial heart: “It is God I love, and God’s green earth.” There are sacred spaces desecrated by our disrespect, but there are more sacred spaces desecrated by our disinterest.
I have run. I have hidden. I have grasped. And I have found that only in stopping, in stepping out, and in opening hands can we escape that from which we flee.