I went on and on just now, the way I do, about pain and unforgiveness and injustice. And the need for eternal torture and the inadequate performance of God, and the impossibility for me of peace. There were some good lines and some gripping images, and it was touching in the revelation of my deeply flawed humanity. But it’s been said before, and goes nowhere.
I have however come up hard against something that seems worth saying. I do want comfort, you know, I want to be soothed, strengthened. Because my soul has been poisoned by resentment, and my body, which had always been reliable, now pains me. It’s not a betrayal; it is a wounded animal, and I mourn for its distress. Point is, where shall I find encouragement?
There is that part of us, the small child, that wants to be rescued, picked up in our tears and held and reassured that we are loved -- which is the true cure for that sort of childish pain. That sort of rough-and-tumble fall-down pain is never the real problem; it’s the idea that we suffer alone, in the presence of indifference. A child who bumps himself while actually alone doesn’t cry. That says it all.
There’s that part of me that wants God to just intervene, have mercy or compassion on me, manifest his angel as a solid presence of healing. Indeed, there is that desire in me. So I asked myself, why doesn’t God just do that? He does it for some people. Why not me? And the answer, as happens, really, always, when I ask this sort of question, comes with the clarity of a voice from across a table. God is holy, and he is disinclined to manifest himself within a heart filled with rage.
We say God. Jesus, Holy Spirit -- it’s this last who does most or all of the comforting. I just don’t think the Holy Spirit dives headlong into a cesspool. That’s not very holy. Holy means separated apart, reserved for cleanliness and respect -- the idea of sacred. There has to be a clean spot, for God to slip through. I think of the way a cat picks its way through mud.
One has to make room, for God. Clear a space, a little altar in your heart, where madness and filth don’t quite reach. Seems like a small enough thing to ask.
For all I know, my life as an athletic person is ending. Maybe this affliction will pass. If not, what will I have left? Rage and pain fill me. There’s only one domain left, my intellect. Will this be attacked too? Body, soul and mind? I did not fully appreciate my health, although I protected it. And I did nothing to clarify my soul, filling it instead with resentment and other low things. And my intelligence is no small thing, but it is almost totally wasted, or completely, given the insignificance of this blog and of the few other interactions I have whereby I share ideas. Transient, superficial, insignificant. The fact that you, you might find some amusement in what I do -- it’s nice, to amuse for a moment. It hardly leaves a mark, a pebble into the water. The meaning of life must surely be more than to make remarks that are forgotten.
I had some blood tests done, just standard stuff, inflammation (which I can spy with my little eye) and bloodwork, whatever that is -- but it’s phone tag with the doctor. So now I have the luxury of imagining something fatal has been found, and there is a thrill in the idea, like I can finally give up and just be done with this, and it won’t be my fault, I can’t be blamed. A little self-dramatizing, comforting. I can’t be blamed. Well, yes, I could be, as has happened in the past, falsely, but there I am, dead, and finally I’ll get justice from God. He can apologize to me, and reward me for my patience, self-restraint and excellence.