You see, these worries are the me of the present — without the graces God can give me in the future — believing I will fail.
Of course the me of the present will fail at the future task. He lacks the strength God provides, only in the moment, to handle whatever happens — which, by the way, will probably be very different than what I expect.
A beloved being who disappoints me. I wrote to him. It is impossible that he should not reply by saying what I have said to myself in his name.
Men owe us what we imagine they will give us. We must forgive them this debt.
To accept the fact that they are other than the creatures of our imagination is to imitate the renunciation of God.
I also am other than what I imagine myself to be. To know this is forgiveness.
Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace
On page 79 (later on in Gravity and Grace, by Simone Weil), she explains the “renunciation of God.” She doesn’t mean a person renouncing God.
She means this. God creates us so that he is not everything. He renounces being everything.
So, to accept that someone is more than what we imagine them to be, to accept that they are subject, not object, is to renounce being everything — I am not the center of the universe.
Inside of me,
A place where wild things roam,
A flock I must shepherd,
A garden I must tend
Through storms and attacks,
Famine, entropy, growth...growth
— Is it not all growth?
Growth to be hedged and pruned,
Encouraged here, enticed there,
To be nurtured into something beautiful.
And what of these thorny worries?
I've let them grow, expecting fruit,
But they've only become a mess.
I try pruning,
But they only grow back stronger.
Instead, I'll try to crowd them out.
I'll scatter, all among them,
Little seeds of prayer, and of faith
That I'll receive the grace
To handle whatever comes, when it comes.
How do we die to ourselves without suicide?
We live for another. We give up every part of us that says “I.” We forget ourselves with another who forgets their self. We close the eyes that watch out for the self, and open the eyes that watch out for the other. We do everything for the good of that other, and do nothing for the good of the self except in that it is for the good of the other. In doing this, we strip ourselves of the self God gave us as an act of giving, in love, to God.
“Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”
To die without death is to defeat death, to take away its power.
Since the moment it entered my mind, perhaps a year ago now, I’ve been unable or unwilling to let go of the notion that “matter is a phase of consciousness.”
I imagine it like this. Everything created is a flowing river. Sometimes, something uncreated splashes into the river and creates ripples. Those ripples are our material lives. They are us from dust. And when they even back out, we are still there in the flowing river.
Is this notion only delightful? Or is it true?
Life is a struggle, no? We are imperfect, incomplete beings. We know so little. Funny how many people are writing blog posts, pushing the “publish” button this very moment, proclaiming to the world that they have the answers. Most likely, they do not.
Today, day one, is as good a day as any for me to tell you, I do not have the answers. This is a me-with-you kind of thing, not a me-guiding-you kind of thing. We’re stumbling together.
I’m a fan of Jon Foreman, the lead singer of Switchfoot. He has a lyric that goes, “the wound is where the light shines through.”
“The wound is where the light shines through.”
The wound, our imperfection, our brokenness, our incompleteness, that is where perfection shines through. It’s where healing happens. And because of that, I aim to embrace my imperfections, my wounds, my broken pieces. I aim to accept my imperfection because if I deny it, then I deny a core piece of who I am.
I am imperfect JK. I’m not just kidding.
But here’s the thing, embracing imperfection doesn’t mean I settle for it. It means I look at it, see it for what it is, and choose to create in spite of it. Maybe because of it. The places in life where I’ve stumbled or faltered have often been the very places where I’ve found a deeper sense of understanding and purpose.
When I think about my own imperfections – things that have held me back or made me feel less-than or, God forbid, hurt others – I’m learning to see them as part of my story, not something to hide or be ashamed of. Yes, I’ve got wounds. We all do. But those wounds are like windows. They let in the light. Yes, I’ve got my weaknesses. But grace works best in weakness.
And that’s the truth I want to start with here: I’m imperfect, you’re imperfect, but that’s not the end of the story. It’s the beginning of something real. Something human. Something worth sharing.
