“Depend on it; when the saints say that they-even they-are vile, they are recording truth with scientific accuracy.” –C. S. Lewis
“And Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone.” – Mark 10:18
In my previous essay, I argued how the greatest of life’s pleasures pointed to something even greater that is beyond life. I argued that our souls are specifically designed to run on no lesser quality of fuel than “God.” My deepest longings must, in fact, have an object. In light of “God,” I have an obligation (no, a motivation!) to live my life in anticipation. Hope is justified; hope is the mindset of “looking forward” that, if it is truly mine, cannot help but express itself as honor and virtue. I cannot live as I once did. I enjoyed the celebration while it lasted. I am compelled by a perplexing implication to my knowledge of the True, Good, and Beautiful. Perhaps describing the perplexity as a “yin” to the established “yang” is most fitting. “God” is the only thing that is sufficient for me: unfading, gratifying, deep pleasure. Nothing even as deep as the oceans can quench the thirst of my soul. “God” is not in the oceans, nor the trees, nor the music, nor the best of humanity; they simply cannot contain him. The experiences that do not forever satisfy me are only tokens that point me upward. Yet, tokens can be talismans; there is a magic that is contained within an everyday example of beauty. Through said magic, I find myself aware of “God,” incomparably good and beautiful to the point of being holy; a fire so hot and bright that it cannot be approached. After all, what am I to “God?”
The simplest form of the proposed “problem of pleasure” is this: pleasure inspires a sense of the happiness that I long for, yet there is also a sense of hesitation in my nature that shirks from happiness. I push myself away because my mind screams, “I am unworthy.” Something that distinguishes me from animals is that animals’ inner programming focuses on survival, not necessarily pleasure or happiness. Animals never shirk away from what they need; they feel no sense of guilt for fulfilling their needs, because they have no sense of right and wrong. Though we may pity the poor antelope being mauled by a lion, neither side complains or rejoices. I, a spiritual animal that is made for more than survival, have a consciousness and will, an unshakable sense of my own heart. Only by willfully becoming like an animal (or something lower) is morality “shaken off.” When I am given something that delights or satisfies me, it is only decent to respond with gratitude and bow out of a sense of feeling blessed. Pleasure is oddly humbling. I think everyone knows what I mean. I express embarrassment in a “pleasure exchange” when I say things like, “Oh! You’re too kind,” or “What did I do to deserve you?” I do not mean to say that happiness or humility is bad; actually, the fact that both happiness and humility must exist together in “pleasure exchanges” in spite of them being good things is, in fact, the problem. The paradox within me is that in feeling good, I feel bad. And in feeling bad, I feel bad (which is bad enough). Let me be clear: I am not saying that my sense of guilt (or “badness”) is the problem. Just as the symptom called fever is not the problem, but a sign of the problem called the flu, so guilt is a symptom of the disease within me. Humility is the exclusively human symptom of wretchedness, and a trigger for my sense of exile.
My example of the lion and antelope may have painted a cruel picture of nature. Perish the thought of nature being shunned as unpleasant! Many others could sing nature’s praises better than I could. There are some who do not even need to try. I do not endorse nature-worship, but I can understand the longing behind the heathen practice. I did, in fact, draw a comparison to nature earlier. Nature, even in an unsatisfying state, brings me to my knees. We impose ourselves over nature as its masters and caretakers, but I may be mad enough to say that nature cares for us and brings the best out of us. From what I have witnessed, the more we spend time and become enveloped in nature, the more that we become like it: orderly, vibrant, colorful, and breathtakingly beautiful, as well as vicious, sharp, fearsome, and mighty. Above all, jaw-dropping. Altogether lovely and awesome. Like its Creator. I would not even think about approaching a lion, yet I am tempted to learn from it and hope to become something remotely close to a being that inspires appreciation and fear. I should also remember that I, prone to be a sluggard, am commanded to go to the ants (even the ants!) in order to learn a thing or two.
If humility stems from true pleasure, nothing conquers me more than the females of our species. If you give me the honor in praising a woman, that is a reward in itself. If a woman pays me a compliment, I am bashful. Looking upon such an incredible example of beauty, I can only sit back and gaze in wonder and reverence. The picture is well enough on its own; why should I force myself onto it? The maiden simply does not need me to gaze upon her to be beautiful, much less allow me the pleasure to praise her.
The reader might consider me a real suck-up by this point, so I want to get back on track. What does all my pleasure talk have to do with “God?” Pleasure in this world is, of course, a symbolic way of comprehending the incomprehensible pleasure that is “God.” I am compelled to say that the paradox of pleasure we experience in this world is a small hint to a horrifying truth about the next world. As my desires of heaven are aroused by the pleasures of earth in the form of longing, so my unworthiness of heaven is aroused by earthly pleasures in the form of guilt. In the ecstasies of earth, I sense heaven’s light and my blackness. In a swap of roles, nature’s humbling care of man awakens a frightening awareness of the holy wrath of “supernature.” I am humbled by the smallest taste of a true, good, beautiful, terrifying, holy, and unknown “God.” I have spoken of “God” as an object to be found and held in my hands. I am reminded that I am actually in his hands.
The reader may believe that I am suffering a delusion or, worse, schizophrenia. First I speak of “God” as the only thing that can fill me, and then I cut the hope down with talk of guilt and wrath. Of course, “God” is love, for there is nothing as good as love. That is true enough. But why should that be a comfort to me? Is it not sensible to say that Love himself is something to shudder at? To say that Love towering above my meager self should leave me in awe? To say that my very best (I have not even considered my worst) is ruthlessly lacking? The baffling paradox is that the greatest of pleasures makes me the most miserable of wretches.
I began this essay with asking “What am I to ‘God?’” I was putting myself in proper perspective. I willingly believe that in my best and truest, shining as bright as the sun, I am still only a dull mirror; the best that you may see in me is only a reflection of glory. I have been mostly focusing on myself, because I can confidently speak for myself. But I am not the only human, though I suppose it is possible that I may be something below a human. Here, my shyness about the subject shows. I have had the privilege (and challenge) to know some of the best of humanity, some who seem closer to “God” than I ever could. For all the highly intelligent, polite, philosophical, introspective, enlightened lords and ladies of the earth, I am saying that something is wrong with them. To tell the truth, the “godhood” of some people has been very difficult to reconcile with the world that I have known. I would make a terrible judge.
augustusc8 