Counseling Kevin

O World Unknowable

In No Strange Land (The Kingdom of God)
--Francis Thompson

O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air-
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars! -
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places-
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry- and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry- clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!

“Religious despair is often a defense against boredom and the daily grind of existence. Lacking intensity in our lives, we say that we are distant from God and then seek to make that distance into an intense experience. It is among the most difficult spiritual ailments to heal, because it is usually wholly illusory. There are definitely times when we must suffer God’s absence, when we are called to enter the dark night of the soul in order to pass into some new understanding of God, some deeper communion with him and with all creation. But this is very rare, and for the most part our dark nights of the soul are, in a way this is more pathetic than tragic, wishful thinking. God is not absent. He is everywhere in the world we are too dispirited to love. To feel him — to find him — does not usually require that we renounce all worldly possessions and enter a monastery, or give our lives over to some cause of social justice, or create some sort of sacred art, or begin spontaneously speaking in tongues. All to often the task to which we are called is simply to show a kindness to the irritating person in the cubicle next to us, say, or to touch the face of a spouse from whom we ourselves have been long absent, letting grace wake love from our intense, self-enclosed sleep.” 
― Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer

All Atwitter About Twitter

A couple of years ago, during Lent, I took a "social media fast," the results of which were edifying. Starting January 1, 2019 (after a couple of parting "tweets"), I've taken a "Twitter fast." I stayed current on Twitter through New Year's Eve, to see if my recent offer of reconciliation by year's end was accepted (unfortunately, for me at least, it was not), but since then, I've managed to resist the compulsion to check Twitter, even for news sources I usually rely upon.

For some time, my Twitter "feed" has struck me as being a cesspool of hate. Much of that hate traces to the country's political divide, exacerbated by a president who uses Twitter to "own" both his supporters and his enemies. It's not merely a lack of civility that's the problem. It's pure, unrestrained hatred that's spewed by each side toward the other. Moreover, there appear to be people who exist on Twitter solely to make the most vile comments imaginable, people who, when you check their profiles, have few, if any, followers and/or appear to have joined Twitter relatively recently. Perhaps they are psychologically imbalanced individuals who have found the perfect outlet to vent their twisted bile. Perhaps reports of Russian "trolls" and "bots," whose job is to sow discord among the American populace, are true. Whatever the reasons, it's not a fun place to visit.

When my concerns were seconded by a social media marketing expert with whom I'm working on a major project that's about to bring me out of "semi-retirement," who confessed that while she occasionally monitors her "feed" for content that affects her business, she has trouble stomaching much of the content, I decided to try to see if I could "wean" myself from that platform, at least until I have some professional activity that requires that I return, or until I figure out a way to completely revamp my list of those I follow to those whose "tweets" appeal to my better angels. Too many on the current list appeal to my dark side, and I have enough problems fighting off that side of my nature without their influence. It is so hard for most of us to love rightly in our everyday lives without malign provocateurs leading us to down the wrong path.

I promised myself that I would not look at my Twitter feed after New Year's Day until at least January 8th. So far, so good. If I can make it that long, I may just extend the "fast" as long as I'm able. If anyone I know only through Twitter needs to communicate with me, they can figure out a way. Leave a comment here, shoot me an email, or send me a Facebook request. I seem to have avoided the haters on that forum, although my younger nieces and nephews assure me that Facebook has morphed into a old fogies forum that is inhabited only by "old people" like me. Snapchat is apparently the preferred forum for the fresh-faced in-crowd, one attraction being that its messages quickly disappear. That's a fitting feature for a generation enchanted by the ephemeral rather than the transcendent.

It Takes Two To Tango, But Only One To Floss

It takes two to tango is an idiom that is derived from a song of the same title, written by Al Hoffman and Dick Manning, and published in 1952...It takes two to tango is most often used to mean that it takes two people to contribute to an argument. In the case of a disagreement, both parties must bear the responsibility of the situation or the blame for the situation, and both must make the effort to work out a resolution.
--Grammarist 

The past two years have been, for me, like a passage from the Book of Malachi.

But who can endure the day of his coming?
Who can stand firm when he appears?
For he will be like a refiner’s fire,
like fullers’ lye.

He will sit refining and purifying silver,
and he will purify the Levites,
Refining them like gold or silver,
that they may bring offerings to the Lord in righteousness.

I think that the personal loss and physical and emotional suffering I have experienced is only a taste of what's to come. God knows, I've got it coming. Of course, as Clint Eastwood's hardened killer character William Munny so rightly observes in the Oscar-winning film Unforgiven, "We've all got it coming."

Nevertheless, as a part of, or perhaps as a result of, that "refining" process, I've felt compelled to (1) let go of all that, as best I can discern, does not belong to God and (2) try to get out of His way in using me for whatever purposes He desires. Inasmuch as I think I've demonstrated clearly an incapacity for wise self-help, I'll try humility instead, and as much quiet time as possible in order to let Him speak softly (as the saints insist He does) to me the course He wishes me to follow.

Two years ago, restraining my tendency for rash acts would have been impossible. I think I suffered the "dislocated humility" that G.K. Chesterton skewered in his marvelous book "Orthodoxy."

Humility was largely meant as a restraint upon the arrogance and infinity of the appetite of man. He was always out-stripping his mercies with his own newly invented needs…But what we suffer from today is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert – himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt – the Divine Reason…For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether.”

One of the essential lessons I think I have learned from my recent experiences, and one I've addressed on this little notepad in cyberspace from time to time, is the centrality of forgiveness to love. What I am not yet certain of, and what I hope I will receive further clarification about in the future, is the necessity of reconciliation, at least in every case where emotional damage was inflicted. In a few cases, I am convinced that reconciliation may not be advisable, for the sake of me, of the other person affected, or of both of us. I am open to God showing me that I am wrong, but I'll remain passive and let Him take the lead. I hope He will be gentle in His choice of messaging methods.

In another case, I thought that reconciliation was clearly appropriate and took the lead in reaching out, but the overture was not reciprocated. Perhaps, in that case, I was too subtle. Therefore, I'll be a little more direct: I know that you still read this blog. If you want to try to find a way to reconcile, follow me back by the end of the year, and I'll take that as a sign that I should reach out to you and see what we can do in our older and (I hope) wiser incarnations. If not, please know that I am sorry for hurting you, wish you God's peace and love, and will recede into the mist.

I'm convinced that living over four decades as a decadent heathen, wandering the spiritual desert in a theological daze, wrecked my reconciliation radar (along with many other essential spiritual tools). It will take a miracle to repair them. The good news is that, as a Catholic, I believe in the existence of miracles.

Forever There Will Be Music

Life dies but forever will there be music. Always.
― Nicholas A. McGirr

Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we do sing
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
Herod, the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his owne sight,
All young children to slay.
That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!
And ever mourn and sigh,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

The "Intolerable" Necessity

For some reason I should be able to articulate but cannot, during this Advent I feel the need to re-read Dietrich Bonhoeffer's "The Cost of Discipleship." Unfortunately, I cannot locate my copy, and while searching the internet for an affordable replacement copy (and other works by Bonhoeffer), I ran across one of his sermons on forgiveness that intrigued me.

Most of the sermon focuses on the feelings we have when we are wronged, often repeatedly, by others, and how, when we attempt to forgive them, and the offenders become "repeat offenders," "how unbearably difficult," even intolerable, to us the act of forgiveness becomes. 

Rather than helping us, this merely burdens us further. For who is able to do this, to forgive brother or sister for everything and to bear it together with them? All our defiance reawakens: No, I do not want to do it and I cannot do it. Nor have the other persons really earned such forgiveness.

This is when, Bonhoeffer asserts, we really make God angry. For who of us who has even an ounce of intellectual honesty cannot remember when we were the offended, God the one offended (often in the guise of one of your fellow human beings), and, when you acknowledged your offense, you had no payment, you "had nothing, absolutely nothing to show but debts and even more debts"? And God forgave you. And continues to forgive you, repeatedly.

How can we get to the point that we are able to forgive each other’s sins, all of those sins, from the bottom of our hearts? My dear friends, those who have experienced what it means for God to lift us up out of a great sin and to forgive us, those to whom God has in such an hour sent another brother or sister to whom we might then confess our sin, whoever knows how a sinner resists such help because the sinner simply does not want to be helped, and whoever nonetheless has experienced how a brother or sister genuinely can release us from our sin in God’s name and in prayer—that person will surely lose all inclination to judge or to hold grudges and will instead want but one thing: to help bear the distress of others, to serve, to help, to forgive,—without measure, without qualification, without end,—such a one can no longer hate sinful brothers and sisters, but will instead want only to love them all the more and to forgive them for everything, everything. Lord, our God, may we experience your mercy so that we, too, may practice mercy without end! Amen.

Amen.

I cannot make another forgive me, but I can forgive that "other", not begrudgingly but from the bottom of my heart, whether or not she or he forgives me. It's not optional, no matter how "tough" I think it is.

As C.S. Lewis famously observed, "If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don’t recommend Christianity." On the other hand, if you want a religion that can transform your life, in this world and (we hope) the next, I recommend that you, as a waiter in a Chinese restaurant in London once urged me with respect to the use of chopsticks, "give it a go."

The Transcendent

If you're interested in transcendence and the relation of music, beauty, and religious faith to the same (and to the permanent things), then this will be one the most interesting 90 minutes you'll spend this month. If not, there's nothing to see here. Move along.

When Your Father Dies

 

SHIFTING THE SUN 
---Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Canadians
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the British,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever
and you walk in his light.

Sighs Too Deep For Words

i shall imagine life
---E.E. Cummings

i shall imagine life

is not worth dying if
(and when)roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed’s
a rose roses(you feel
certain)will only smile

It must be as terrible to live without hope as it must be to live without either faith or love. While St. Paul asserts that the greatest of these three virtues is love, hope is also essential to a meaningful life.

I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. Romans 8:18-28

I know people who think that the display of such such hope is the display of weakness. I understand that way of thinking because that is how I, too, used to think. I will pray for them as I pray for myself.

And no matter what I or they may think about weeds and roses, I feel certain that roses will continue to smile.

Somewhere in the dark I'll find you
Somewhere in the light, I'll meet you there
Where immortal souls collide
Somewhere out there

It Is In Love That We Are Made, In Love We Disappear

A sick society must think much about politics, as a sick man must think much about his digestion; to ignore the subject may be fatal cowardice for one as for the other. But if either comes to regard it as the natural food of the mind—if either forgets that we think of such things only in order to be able to think of something else—then what was undertaken for the sake of health has become itself a new and deadly disease.
--C.S. Lewis

Our society appears to have traveled beyond the land of mere "political polarization" and is now frolicking in the wasteland of the truly insane. What's been on display in the political, and now social, arenas is as dark as I've seen since my 20th year in 1968. Social media, and its ability to permit the vile to reach out and touch not merely "someone," but "everyone," increases the darkness exponentially.

Of course, it's their fault, as it always is. The "Other." "They" must be not only suppressed, but exterminated. "All [insert political, racial, ethnic, religious, or other group name here] must die!"

Politics has become, indeed, a "deadly disease."

For those fatally infected, I have no cure. For others, I recommend taking a Twitter "fast." Instead, pray, if you're a believer. In fact, pray even if you're not.

Turn from the darkness toward the light. Ponder the imponderable. Be still, if only for a short time, and think about those people in your life who you have loved and have passed and about those you love now. In the stillness, you may "hear" something sane, something just, something transcendent, something true.

You can always return to your despair at a later date. Barring a miracle, the insanity is not likely to be spontaneously cured.

As for me, events in my life over the past year have prompted me to stillness, prayer, and the contemplation of the mysteries of life, death, faith, hope, and "love."

Those events which have passed, and which are the foundations of our lives, must be somewhere, he thought. They must be recapturable, even if only in a perfect world. How just it would be if for our final reward we were to be made the masters of time, and if those we love could come alive again not just in memory, but in truth.
― Mark Helprin, "Winter's Tale"

I'm still waiting for someone to tell me "what Boogie Street is for."

So come, my friends, be not afraid, we are so lightly here
It is in love that we are made, in love we disappear
Though all the maps of blood and flesh are posted on the door
There's no one who has told us yet what Boogie Street is for

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The Taste of "Victory"

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
---From "My Lost Youth" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

And you still refuse to be traced
Seems to me such a waste
And every victory has a taste that's bittersweet

And it's your face I'm looking for on every street

And it's your face I'm looking for on every street