Posts under Letter Category
My dear Hohenstaufenin,
Does it not seem to you the kiss of spring is a traitorous one? Winter beats on us with her merciless winds, her belts of falling snow, her pure disinterest in the blue-black cold. Carrying on, as captives, we endure, lusting after brighter days. Is it any wonder that every year we reach to a fiery spring, the happy dance of leaves in insouciant bloom, and all the merriment of nature rousing? But things begun anew have their birthing pains, and none too gentle ones at that.
I have heard it said that spring bears us up and wipes us clean. It is, perhaps, not far from Nature’s three days in the tomb, finally resurrected. Who, after all, could imagine an April Easter without blossoming tulips craning over lush green grass? What feast celebrating Christ conquering the cold of death could be convened amid a congress of storms and ashen skies?
But this is the deep irony that dawns when we are old enough to recognize it. Ah, there will be blooming beauties strewn by God across our way, but only long enough for the kiss of the happiness it brings. For if it were all just flowers and sun, we would be happy every spring—children delighted by the simple miracles of Nature. But that is a happiness that dulls as spring drags on and life beside it; as flowers flood us with allergens; as spring-sprung loves shoot from giggles and a smile.
I mean to say, what has God prepared for us if not the cycle of existence, borne in Nature’s seasons? There is no simple season, state, or mind which counts on happiness and rolls along content. So complicated is our happiness, so curious our curiosity that good is sullied at the last with inquisition and the pangs of doubt. It rolls through us as the constant (if unbearably slow) river Styx.
We are like lovers, you and I—and sometimes you play the damsel in distress and I the hero, sometimes that is backwards and I wait for your strong hands to buoy me up. But it is a fantasy we play at, and no wonder: humanity is not becoming with imagination fitted to robes of reality. Let us face the season, and the facts of it: sweet kisses come, and sweet kisses go. If they are true, they last at most in memory. If they are false and against us, they mark the beginnings of the fall into that cold, unscrupulous season we know as winter.
I should think I have the strength and station to be honest with you about our games, but not so far as to tell you face-to-face. For at the least I may say I have the memory of spring intoxications, if not its lasting virtue. Should I come to you and lay my face upon the floor, confessing terrible truths, what happiness was once will be forever washed away.
Every spring, the Tiber rises and blots out its littoral existence for a new season. Perhaps it is tired of the charades that dance on her shores, the memory of schemes and plots concocted on her banks. And if it is so, can you blame her? Can we blame at all that supple season that so ungentle is?
You hear my point. We are not friends, you and I. We are not family, and though the fiction sometimes courts us, we are not paramours. I should rather rest in truth, and make my bed in her, than be a dandy in the wind and wish on things that are one day and not the next.
Be wary, then, the traitorous kiss of spring. If we are to bind our peoples up with hope, it must not be the product of a dalliance or pretty, perfidious deceit. Christ knew better; Judas did not.
I call on you to offer the next word, by your season and your time. May it consider peace, and be considerate in all the ways a man of God should be.
Faithfully of Christ and fallibly human, I remain yours,
Innocent
My dear friends,
I hope and pray that you enjoy the grace of God’s peace and mercy. For none compare to these, necessary and thoroughly perfect, desperately sought by all men on this, the eve of Christ’s great sacrifice. Amen.
I trust you know well the particular part of Scripture which reads, of the Pharisees: “You shall not pray on the street corner as they do; you shall not sacrifice for all to see. Pray in private, so that only God the Father may know your needs and your wrongdoing.”
But I admonish you, as I admonish myself, not to couch your beliefs too severely, lest they be altogether dismissed. Indeed, have we ever prayed because another told us to? If it is so, then it is not truly prayer, but some other thing and most likely the empty mouthing of words from which comes nothing. But true prayer begins in the heart and travels by way of the tongue to the ears of God in heaven.
I say again: It begins in the heart. And God who sees in secret knows its chambers and all within so that not even prayer may make clear things unknown. Prayer, my brothers and sisters, is for us alone and the unburdening of our consciences; God has no need of it, save that we have need of it.
Just the same, do not be so scrupulous that prayer becomes some set ritual which may not be enjoyed in this circumstance or that. Prayer is for us, beloved; we are to use it where prayer will bring us comfort, joy, and peace rendered through the confessions of a genuine, contrite heart. Have no fear of being a Pharisee in that: for if one should see you, what is that to them? But to God, it is everything.
I confess to you, and to the whole company of heaven, that I have failed to bear my heart fully before God in prayer. To God that is nothing: for God knows, even when it is not told to Him. But it is also everything: for God desires to be made our everything, to be intimate with our thoughts and feelings, that nothing is hidden away. It is not the substance which God desires, but the act of revealing, for this is the ultimate in sacrificial love. How painful, how terrifying to give over all to a God we never fully know! But this, my dear brothers and sisters, is the crux and the cross of faith: that though we are weighed down by the evils which we do, in raising them up to God, we know we are forever beloved.
If you have wronged someone, bear it out in prayer; if you have desires that may be offensive, reveal them to God; if you have joys you are unable to express, confess them in the confines of your heart. Trust, my beloved, that God not only knows all, but cares for all, and condemns none. Perhaps we hide our weakness and sin from prayer for fear of punishment. But I ask you: what kind of god would that be who sends his only Son to die for our sakes, out of love most perfect, and would also condemn us for the breach of a simple commandment? Whatever god that is, it is the Golden Calf of deities; it is fickle and capricious, liking not steadfast covenant but the whimsy of human emotion. It is in Jesus the Christ that we learn, most painfully, that we are not born of a temperamental God, but of one surpassing human patience and devoid of human offenses.
Let come the crucifixion, then, my friends, and let us be wiped clean. Through its toil and trial, let us walk the way of the cross with Christ, praying for peace within our hearts. For surely, if it is that God may harden hearts, he may also soften the hardest of them.
Be vigilant, be prayerful, be one with God, and I shall be ever with you on that journey. When it is over, we will stand face-to-face, utmost naked before our God. We will be renewed in all piety and every possible perfection, as it is according to the perfect will of God.
In joy and anticipation, I remain forever yours in Christ,
Jeff
Jesus,
I’d grant you peace and prosperity—just like your favorite son Paul—but frankly, that seems daft coming from me. I mean, truly, it ought to be the other way around. In due course, of course.
Really, the reason I’m writing has everything to do with this Lent business. Now I understand full well that we human beings have affected a lot since you ascended, and in that way, we can hardly blame you for moments of religious confusion. It’s no wonder so many distance themselves from the gargantuan institutions we call “church”. What is it my pastor says? “I’m spiritual, but not religious.” Amen to that.
But just the same, I cling to my idealism, and think there must be a kernel of honest truth to the rituals we’ve put in place, and therefore pore over them again and again. Take, for example, Lenten resolutions.
When I was part of Mother Church, they were a given: sacrifices made for 40 days as we traveled on the journey of Lent. They were designed, it seemed, to give us each a sense of suffering, lack, and deprivation—much like your 40 days in the desert. And, also much like that horrific time, we would be tempted to give up those resolutions because we just couldn’t be without whatever it was we gave up. It was a test of strength, it seemed—perhaps even a test of faith.
As I grew older, the idea of Lenten resolutions became more fluid. Giving up chocolate here and soda there seemed petty and without much meaning. The question became: What can I give up of true substance? How can I really experience lack? Self-punishment ensued, recalling some of the grossly dramatic flagellations of the early church.
These days, however, even that crusade has fallen to tatters—like the robes you wore to the Cross. Or perhaps time and age have ripped it apart. Regardless, the idea of forcibly giving something up for Lent seems foolish. Too often, we’re inclined to give something up not because we will experience loss or lack, but because it’s a good opportunity to give up something we shouldn’t have anyway—things that are truly bad for us. What sort of discipline is that?
So I’ve been thinking on it, Jesus, and I think I’ve taken yet another step forward in this thing called faith—at least so far as Lent is concerned. Many years have gone by that resolutions have fallen to dust. I’ve failed, and not even lightly. You were there to watch them unfold, and there was hardly any way to hide it. I failed to sustain my lack. The discipline of spirit was absent, or corrupt, or both.
But maybe that’s the point? I can challenge myself to give up eating, to give up sex, to give up water—anything that makes me substantively human. And while to some that might be a noble goal, the truth is that it’s definitely impossible to do it on my own. That’s where the revelation hits.
We’ve long been told we’re sinful, and there’s really nothing we can do about it. So what does a Lenten resolution tell us? Keeping the resolution or not doesn’t tell us much of anything. Over the years, we will succeed in keeping some, and fail in keeping others. Eventually, we will see patterns form and know that failure is just part of the equation. Is that something to be defeated by? No. Because the whole point of Lent is not for me to say “I let go of ________,” but rather, “I let go.” That is to say, “I can’t do this on my own. I never could, and I never will.” It is our way of walking the road to the cross and saying, to you and to God: “Into your hands, I commend my spirit.”
And do you know what is so damned wonderful about it all? Of course you do, but I’ll say it anyway. Lent can be torturous; it can be hellish; it can be strengthening; it can be humbling. At the end of that road, the celebration is the same: we are all amazed by your sacrifice, love, and persistent forgiveness. It becomes clear, then: In you, all things are reconciled and made right. Not through us, however hard we try, however much we strain.
It is as the creed of Alcoholics Anonymous tell us: Let go, and let God. May that be my resolution this Lent, and throughout the entire year.
Thank you for listening to me, Lord; I know there are many to listen to. And keep me in mind on the other side of those clouds, ok? Not every day is filled with sunshine down here.
I love you,
Jeff
Most Excellent Apostle,
Many thanks for the grace you remind us of; it is our daily bread. And for that, we are yet surviving.
But I ask you, wrapped up in your aphorisms and platitudes, what exactly is the fullness of time? It is a bendy way to go about accessing comfort in the Lord—ambiguous as all hell (which we don’t believe in here, by the way). I mean to say: When do we expect fullness? And what is time to God anyway? To expect God in the fullness of something that doesn’t exist is a bit daft, no?
Look, all we want is a bit of reassurance that there is some concrete thing to look to—not just an ambiguous promise. God promised the freedom of the Israelites from the Egyptians, right? That was pretty clear. But he sends you now in the form of Moses to tell us that all of the goodness of God will happen in the fullness of time. You might as well tell us to sit tight, because you have no fucking idea when we’ll have any relief from the insipid Romans.
I know it’s unusual for you get letters like this, and it’s unlikely it will match up to your theologically astute epistles, but someone’s got to say something! You’re quick enough to tell us who we should marry and how we should be spending our denarii, but when it comes to knowing much about the coming of the Lord, you’re all smoke and mirrors. Typical. Isaiah was the same way.
Just send us something of substance, would you? Make it up for all I care—it’s just about giving us hope. Tell us the fullness of time is Thursday at 4 o’clock. Or on the sabbath before we say our prayers. After we eat our gefilte fish. SOMETHING! It’s really not a lot to ask.
Anyway, we appreciate the letters just the same. Most of us think you’re not even writing them—that you have a toady who makes up this fluff. Still, I see it as a comfort. I mean, what else do we have to read but edicts from the emperors telling us that they’re burning us—no, drowning us—no, that we’ll be eaten by lions—no, … It’s good to know someone wants us alive.
So, all in all, let us know what we should do—and for God’s sake, be explicit! Faith can’t save us from the lion’s den, if you get my drift. Those are children’s stories.
Peace and safe travels! Knock the dust off those shoes.
In Christ,
Roger, the elder of Corinth
Brothers and Sisters,
As in all things, I greet with you love and grace according the wondrous will of the most holy God. Amen.
I confess to you, my beloved, how wayward I have been these months. But in my fault and weakness, there was the opportunity for strength; that when I was weak, you were strong, and sustained me. I have endured much, and not by my own account, but as God’s will set forth, and for that I am grateful.
Truly you know how easy it is to boast of this strength? I, too, have culled the pride of boasting, but what is there in that? Have we not all heard Brother Paul? For just as he, far greater than I, was a sinner saved to be a disciple, so too are each of us. It was Paul, the sinner-saint, who told us that there is no cause for boasting.
For what would we boast? That the occasion of weakness in another made us strong? No. Strength of spirit, strength of mind, strength of body do not come from us or by us but according to the One who made us. If I am weak so that others may lift me up, it is not to them I should be thankful. For God works through them as it pleases his will. So it is when I uplift another—I would be foolish to boast in my service, for it is not a service I knew except that God had showed it to me and given me the strength to live it.
And so, there is no cause for boasting—as Paul has said. But why do we continue? Do you applaud yourself so much that you are set upon your own dais? Do you crown yourself with a diadem because you have saved another? What then? I tell you now: the love which emanates from those in awe is not a love at all, but an ignorant admiration. It, too, fades.
But in Christ, it is different. What is such admiration to him, but child’s play? There is no satisfaction there. But more so, it is utterly false: for we take the throne of praise for acts which we did not do. There is nothing in us that can do good without the power of God. For our gifts he fashioned; our love is of his cloth; our spirits stirred according to his will. Do not be foolish, then. Be as you are: sinners in the service of God, delighted that such love abounds as to embrace us fully, even as we are weak, even as we are foolishly strong. Whatever our giftedness, we have no claim upon it.
I say these things to you, brothers and sisters, not because I have seen you boasting, dismissing the work of the Lord. Rather, I say it because I have done these things and continue to do these things, fearing that you may also do them. They are my thorns, and my stumbling block; be wise to see that you, too, may stumble as I have. Follow, then, the path of God, and in a constant faith, you will be satisfied in God and God alone. For there is nothing in ourselves that we make whole, or that is truly satisfactory.
What’s more, beloved, I urge you as I urge myself to release the demons which tell us what we ought to do and what is prohibited. Did not Paul himself say all are saved, apart from the law? Do not give another injunction so easily, then, for you do not know their heart. But God knows all, and God loves all, and will guide all as is necessary. Moreover, concern yourselves not with the salvation of self but the uplifting of others. Was that not the work of Christ among us?
I must leave you again, my brothers and sisters, but be sure of spirit and steadfast in faith. I will write again soon, and as the spirit moves me. Until then, I meditate on the workings of the Lord, ever vigilant in opening my heart to the revealing of his will.
Pray to the Lord often, beloved, for he loves you constantly and his words are etched upon your hearts. As his servant, I, too, love you, and remain forever yours in Christ,
Jeff
