What is the nature of love and what is its cost?
My wedding is less than two weeks away, and while I am overjoyed and cannot wait for the ceremony and my new life to begin, I am haunted by an idea: that love, no matter what, ends in pain. Such is its cost. One cannot truly love without incurring the pain of loss at some point, prayerfully far in the distant future.
What shall we say of love then? Is it an evil to be avoided, a by-product of evolution that has outlived its purpose? Why embark upon on such a path if the ultimate end is pain?
CS Lewis once said in his book, The Four Loves: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
To love draws us closer to God, to love refines us as we lay down our lives for another. Any amount of dross that gets burned from the fallen heart by the process of love is a worthy end, but what’s more, to love is to join in something deep and eternal, a taste of the infinite and divine here, in the outskirts of eden.
These thoughts first arose several years ago, before I met my wife to be. I had just been dumped. The worst breakup I had ever experienced, but probably the best in regards to what I ultimately gleaned from it. Truly, that season of loving another, through the ensuing heartbreak, wound up refining my heart and rekindling my love of God as I returned from my wandering and resumed my journey upon the trail.
At first I lingered by the trailside, unsure if I should continue to my trek back to Eden. “What if I hurt my witness through that relationship, God? What happens then?”
Through a great deal of prayer, the answer was clear. I most certainly had, but perhaps not entirely. There were aspects of the relationship in which I embodied Christ, and it was God’s place and God’s alone to make those moments shine bright among the darkness that characterized my psyche during that season. “What’s done, is done.” And, I reasoned, if but one second of the relationship had made some sort of Kingdom impact, it was worth it.
Such was the last word on the subject.
And so I set out once more.
I endeavored to set between myselves new memories, good and bad, so that I would no longer recognize the former man, nor reconcile him unto myself.
I reflected on my endeavor to keep this journal—its pages were filling quickly. What more might be in store along this path? What other weeds might God pull from my heart? Would I look upon these words right here, then flip to the conclusion of the volume, see the ending in store, and chuckle at the distance traveled and how truly God had worked it all for the good? Could I take hope that this book had already been written, and that I was merely the transcriptionist?
I recalled the rules of the wild that I learned that summer, and began to see a theme emerge.
To adapt: to be willing to adjust and move on despite circumstance.
To advance: to refuse the weight of inertia; to keep moving.
To be fit: to constantly take note and make change to weakness; to hone the heart, body, and soul.
In the wake of the break up and in light of my new journey, I set about to uphold these laws.
I wished to advance, to place one foot before the other, onward towards the Divine.
Yet, my heart was still broken, and the gray skies of the encroaching winter drove that feeling deeper and deeper.
I languished. Day by day, week by week, month by month. Countless pages of the journal filled with ramblings that bear no repeating apart from their final word: “I look back on these writings and no longer recognize the man who began this chapter,” and that was a success.
Still my path meandered through the valleys,
over the mountains,
across the dark and haunted world–
through lands where giants trodd;
Where one must be still,
For the one who lead is Greater than they.
Greater too than they who walk,
So that the trail, though broken
and tormented
May pass as though a candle in
a gust.
Here, so bright and singular in the momentary darkness,
But ultimately fleeting, and outshone by the light of morn.
Yea, so I walked down the trail
of this dark and haunted world–
less a companion,
But never without my guide,
Nor my terminus,
in resolute fixture:
Firmly in my gaze.
I moved out a fews later, from my parents’ home into my first apartment. I didn’t want any roommates, I needed to learn to stand myself by myself.
I had to leave Bear behind, him being a Rottweiler/German Shepherd and this being Metro-Atlanta, the landlords had forbade his joining me.
It was a painful parting, there was an aspect to our interaction that seemed to indicate that he knew that our time had passed. I lamented the breaking of our pack, after so many years and the time we had spent in the woods, but my brother was taking him in up north, and that meant that he would be able to live out his life in happiness and community: it was a better life, and one that he deserved.
In the meantime, there was work to be done, prayers to prayed, and a life to be made.
But first, I had to confess. A few nights into my new apartment I wrote these words::
I serve a God older than the sea;
Older than the Cosmos.
A God who, in love and wisdom,
Crafted the Earth.
And unto the dust brought forth
Us.
A God that far exceeds any simulacra in mere human myth.
A God who is so unfathomably great that His existence must be heralded by Himself and given to man, for man could never conceive of such a thing by his own volition.
A God who is calling out to you this very second as you read these words, for it is my lot as His child and servant to declare His name and proclaim His glory.
But—do not be afraid.
The Lord is slow to anger and quick to mercy, for He loves you dearly and wishes you to know Him as He knows you.
Even though our mortal coil and twisted hearts separate us from Him, He still holds back His wrath— the very force that set the cosmos in motion with the Biggest of Bangs— and extends His hand, hoping for you to take it.
No matter how you may see yourself, no matter the hurt you have felt, no matter the path you have trod, the falls you have taken, the secret shames that beset your heart and hold you locked in darkness:
The Lord loves you, bring it before Him and seek Him, heed His words, and you will be made new.
Dear reader, whoever you may be, I pray now that the Lord, architect of the universe, Master of the Atom, the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, your eternal creator who loves you so dearly, so much more than any person could, will reach out to you and make Himself known to you.
If you seek Him, you will find Him, and discover that He was never lost, but your companion through the darkness you never knew existed.
Amen.
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t a “Christian”. My family wasn’t “churchy”, but I was educated in Christian schools, and knew none but Christian friends.
But, to claim to be a “Christian”, and to make good on it by your deeds are two drastically different things.
By my teenaged years, I had it all figured out—I had sworn celibacy until marriage, I had promised never to smoke, drink, cuss, chew, or run around with girls that do. Drugs? Never. Not even once.
I could go toe to toe with anyone and argue the existence of God, articulate with great conviction why I was right and they were wrong. I knew the Bible front to back and I had the t-shirt and travel mug to prove it.
Was I right? Was I a Christian?
You bet your ass I wasn’t.
In 2005, my uncle passed away, shattering the illusion of my warm existence. Darkness—true darkness—crept in.
The following year saw more death, the first findings of love, and deep betrayal until finally, in the throes of a depressive episode brought on from post-surgical dementia, I found myself with nothing.
God, I reasoned, wasn’t real. My life was a lie, and I made up my mind to take it.
Just before going through it, I issued a half-assed challenge—a defiance:
“Prove that you’re there, or let me die.”
He answered.
That was the first time I truly felt the presence of God— and it sent me into fits of laughter and tears of joy.
That day I knew that God—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob— the Father of the Holy Lamb and Savior Jesus Christ, had heard my prayers and had, despite my lowly state, answered.
I committed myself to Christ and beset myself to learn and understand all I could of His teachings.
But, this was folly, for my quest became an idol in itself to become the best “Christian” ever— to be smarter than the Atheist and put him to shame by the wealth of my knowledge.
I ceased to read the Bible, scarcely prayed—after all, I was “good”. I had all the answers.
I was full of it.
With college, my folly came to fruition.
I lost myself in greed, sex, drugs, and alcohol. I took pride in it, in how much I had done, I had really lived it up.
I saw my dreams come true and then fall broken to the ground as, despite all of my material prosperity, the tempation of a gun in my mouth and the inability of my decadence to quell it revealed how truly and utterly broken I had become.
More death. This time of someone closer in age whom I had loved like a brother.
I passed into darkness. Bedridden. Burnt out. Dying inside and too much the coward to do anything about it.
And then, by “chance”, I found my Bible—untouched for I know not how long.
And I read it.
And I prayed.
And I surrendered back to God all that I had claimed for my own.
And, what’s more, I kept at it this time.
I saw and felt the hand of God working in my life and the world.
Existence became vibrant, weighty, poignant.
Yet, still, I sinned.
Otherwise I would not have drafted this confession, my testimony.
For, I am a man who has sinned greatly and horribly before the Lord, and time and time again He has saved me from myself and the errancy of my own heart. By the Grace and Blood of Christ, and Christ alone, I have been redeemed.
In that month, as I strove to overcome heartbreak, I leaned on the Lord more and more. More than I ever had.
I set out from home to make my own way and realized more and more this volume’s purpose: Sehnsucht. That longing that drove me to the wild. It wasn’t about being a mountain man, it was me wrestling with God in the face of my unwillingness to relinquish control of my life and heart.
I lied to myself enough to justify breaking an oath before God not to date a non-believer.
I rationalized falling into sin with her under the pretense that I might save her.
I made it about my love, and my woe.
I wallowed in heartache.
And I am glad that such time has passed.
Further, I am glad for the pain inflicted upon me.
Because, finally, after such a long time, I’m beginning to understand— more and more everyday–
Why I have had certain experiences and training;
Why God has not allowed me to die;
and
Where— though the path is still shrouded, He is leading me.
“This land was cut for war.”
Indeed.
Not against flesh and blood, but the oldest war—between good and evil.
I am to serve the Lord in all that I do, and He has blessed me in spite of everything.
I don’t deserve anything but a shallow grave.
He is working in my life, changing my heart, changing my wants and desires.
And living alone means that I have that much more time to spend with Him one on one.
With that written, I began to read, and to reflect.
I read in the first few pages of Alexander Schmemann’s For the Life of the World, a text whose film adaptation had greatly inspired me, that man is primarily a consuming creature— that is why so many metaphors in Scripture revolve around the image of feasting— we consume energy, food, water, we need power sources— all hearkening back to God. So is this consumption found in our social interaction.
It occurs to me that the source of so much inter-social pain and conflict is the fact that, as humans, it is easy for us to “feed” on one another.
In romance— the dalliance between two opposing forces is such that, if there were no other outlet or intermediary, the two would ultimately consume one another, or one consume the other utterly.
This is why it is crucial to not rely on worldly things— people— for such sustenance.
What we need, as humans, is true food.
Communion with God is the only thing that will fill a person up— even as they lay broken in this mortal coil.
Alas, we have leaks. We’re all very, very, sick. Too often, our inherent Brokenness is overlooked or shrugged off. As a species we must accept that we are not inherently benign creatures.
We do not function merely out of instinct— and certainly altruism is not universally hardwired into us.
What is, however, is cruelty, malice, bitterness— the base negatives of human beings, observable from the youngest child to the oldest adult.
I am not suggesting that we are incapable of good, but that the very presence of such labels— acknowledgment of positive and negative traits—calls our bluff:
We know full well that if we are not entirely “positive” or “good”.
We have negative traits and behaviors.
We are broken.
I cannot, in good faith, claim that God will heal all or prevent all suffering in this mortal life. I have experienced depressions far darker than I would wish on anyone—yet I cling to God still.
But—the Lord offers context to it and shines light through the darkness.
I have nothing inherent in my flesh that is good. I make horrible decisions and leave destruction in my wake.
But—for a reason I know not what—the Lord saved me and continues to grow me— exponentially when I seek Him, but even in my exiled years.
I am an oddity amongst my Christian brethren in that I see much hope in the fact that the Lord has not yet come again— it means that there is work to be done in preparation, and more broken people to help. More people to be saved. There is still time.
I don’t have all the answers.
Day by day I am learning to live deliberately and intentionally— more so than I knew possible, or wished to experience.
So much is a mystery to me. So many threats—the stormy sea arises.
But I live not for myself, but for God, and I am one night closer to Him.
I know my flesh will falter again—I know I will mess up—but I also know that, when the waves consume me, I will reach up, cry out to Christ, and be saved once more.
I know this because it has happened time and time again— and if I know Christ has me, then who or what can stand against me?
I reviewed some of my old entries— not even 6 months yet— and I cannot justify who I am now with who I was then.
Who will I be when I type this up? (changed, but still you.)
Who will I be when you read this?
I hope I have grown more, and I hope I am still living a deliberate life worth living–
It was never the “wild”—that drew me out there. After all, what is the “wild” really? Is it a place devoid of safety nets? Is it a place where the line between man and the spiritual is blurred? I tell you the “wild” is the world we live in. Through modern convenience we have deluded ourselves into a false sense of security, but ask a child in the foster care system, snatched from the home of an addict or an abuser, if they think that we live anywhere other than the “wild”.
We live in a world catered towards addiction–
Wallets stuffed with the wages of wholesale drug peddling—legal and otherwise—and even sold to us in our media and food.
We are a consuming creature, and the flashing lights of a Hollywood spectacle but titillate our inherent sense of wonder—but it’s no substitute for the real deal.
Any work that titillates, but contains no truth is the work that was wrent from the hands of malevolence—the hands and hearts that know “you’ll buy it anyway”.
Why do we race the sun as we do, while neglecting all that it falls on?
We try so hard to crest the next hill that we forgo the Lilies of the Valley.
Our world is drowned in light— so much that it blots out the stars.
Is it any wonder that a culture with no real visual grasp of the cosmos on a clear night would depart wholesale from the wonder of that which is greater, and instead continue the erection of our own Babel? Temples to ourselves. Here, in the outskirts of Eden.
What temples had I built for myself? What temples have you built for yourself? What addictions have we yet to master? How can the Lord best use us?
No, it wasn’t the “wild” that set me to flee from civilization, it was the need to be surviving and not merely existing. The need to truly have to lean on God day to day. The need to truly hunger and thirst for righteousness.
And, soon enough, I was to discover how much of life alone was about surviving. How much I needed to lean on God, and how good I had had it for most of my life.