Advent Calendar, Dec. 3: Simple Gifts
I called my friend Carol tonight, who is one of the strongest Christians I know. She’s Jamaican, and she always helps me when I stray off the path. She reminds me that when the devil starts to talk to us about how bad, worthless, and unloveable we are, we should call out prayers to bind that devil in the name of Jesus. I don’t do that—I let the dark spirits take over, and descend into pain and self pity. Then I get stuck there.
It gets so bad I can’t write, can’t do anything.
Where do you begin?
Forgiveness doesn’t come easily or naturally. Carol reminds me to forgive anybody who has hurt me and rebuke the demons in them and the demons in me, bind them up, cast them out. Stomp on them.
It’s hard to do when they’re all over you, running the whole show, you’re covered in their slime and you don’t think you can ever come back. It feels like it’s too late.
Everybody is so hurt, it’s insane, but if we could forgive, we could lessen the pain.
I make the decision to forgive and ask God to help me since I’m lousy at it.
It’s all that interests me greatly, but I can’t seem to do it.
Pride is a killer of life.
Marshall Rosenberg used to say there is no such thing as an insult. A strong person would know that it’s true—nobody can insult or hurt you unless you get weak.
But what do you do if you get weak, then?
How do you get strong if you’re weak?
Carol reads Psalms in the morning. She reminded me to thank God for all the things I should be thankful for each morning, and to praise him.
I was trying to build “self esteem” without his help. Again.
Christians will always tell you God loves you and knows your struggles and your failings, and wants you to be victorious in your walk.
Leftists, in my experience, if you stand around them for a bit, will tell you what’s wrong with you. They’re not “left” really, they’re just secular, which is really the same thing. They will gash you.
They believe in shame.
I can get that way too. Because I was sooooo wroooonged.
Christians believe in redemption from sin—it can all be transformed, you can always go from darkness to light, with repentance, prayer, and forgiveness. They’re rooting for you.
I want to be a Christian.
It’s very hard.
Christians, in my experience, are hopeful. I want to be hopeful, not glum and judgmental. Right acts, right facts, right positions, mean nothing, if we can’t forgive, and can’t feel remorse, and can’t try to lift others up.
It’s all nothing—even being entirely right about an infinite field of facts—it’s worthless. Truth is worthless.
Only love is not worthless.
But how do you find it when your heart is shattered? You have to start somewhere—-start with failure. Forgive yourself and commit to rebuking those demons, who are sabotaging you luring you to become a faithless pauper. No facts will ever bring you any joy, or freedom.
Only wall you in to a cold castle of lonely self righteousness.
One crumb of empathy or mercy is worth more than all the facts in the world.
We’ve come through a blood-soaked battle over the years and yes—we were right.
Now what?
We have to work our way back to being something more than that. Merciful, with ourselves and others.
Corinthians 13 is a stunning thing—it always makes me feel rightfully small, but hopeful that if I just obey, I can leave the cold castle, leave all the facts behind, and become new.
May our ragged hearts heal, may we discover the fruits of simple kindness, of watching every word, bridling the tongue, and rebuking the demons that trick us into thinking we may lash out without cost.
This song was written by a Shaker named Elder Joseph Brackett in 1848.
When I can’t locate my own heart, I listen to this song.
And then there was my mother’s unforgettable words, in 1999, a few months before she died:
“The only things I really regret in my life are the times when I did not show enough love.”
I argued with her, but she was adamant. She had not shown her brother, who took his life, enough love, she said.
I’m buried up to my ears in guilt about all the love I did not show or give.
But when I get angry I lose sight of how much I would prefer being loving to “defending myself.” Rebuke a person’s demons, never a person—the person is not the one doing whatever they’re doing. Same as with each one of us.
Nothing is more interesting than kindness. I want to get better at it— it’s a daily practice.
I’ll start now.
I used to experience horror every night at the cusp of sleeping and waking from the ages of 14 until 19, and others awake in the same room would feel it too. I knew it was some kind of entity and I knew I had no control. Eventually I told my doctor and he prescribed a blessing. Two women prayed over me in the name of Jesus and bound the spirit of fear. There were probably others praying too. It worked. That thing came back on me when I was in Ireland in my Forties and the Lords Prayer didn't work, but when I called out to Jesus that thing went immediately, and never returned. I was left bathed in love and peace for hours and the horror never returned. My son recently told me he had the same experience, though he didn't tell me for years. Jesus really does save. And I really must try a prayer for the spirit of worthlessness. I get overwhelmed some times by thoughts that what I do on Substack is worthless to humanity. Yet part of me knows it is terribly important. So I know that thought is not my own impulse.
Oh. Deep reflection here.
Thank you. I like to read reflections like this.
Intelligence is a privilege and a burden. It makes joy very joyful, and sadness very sad.
The friendship of the intelligent is the most intense. The loneliness is also the most intense. The history of literature speaks of this tragedy and this comedy. Even the most successful authors find themselves haunted by terrible emotions.
Perhaps God inspired the Psalms especially for the most intelligent people, who turn out to be adults with special needs (I realize the comedy of this sentence, I hope the reader can realize it's realism).
The legend goes that the Benedictine Monks used to recite the psalms all the time whatever they were doing. Milking goats, that's a good time for psalms. Preparing food, that deserves a psalm. Caring for the bees, great opportunity to recite a psalm. Sweeping the floor would be a waste without remembering a psalm, and so on.
Because there will be bad moments where there is nothing more to do, but wait. Then the monk already has the psalms prepared, like a hunter has the rifle already loaded.
But, let's face it, the intelligent tend to be also the laziest people. So they will skip the repetition of the psalms, in pursuit of more exciting and newish looking things.
Hope is easier than sticking to the plan.
It has to be both: hope and repetition. They save each other, like good sisters.
Someone is posting clips of some Kurt Vonegut these days. I never knew that guy was so funny. A bit too sarcastic. A man of his time, I guess. I think that man secretly mastered hope. He probably never showed it to his nihilistic friends because he cared for them more than they cared for themselves. But the type of comedy he did when giving a talk to other writers.... that's well trained virtue. Because, you know, hope is a virtue.
Anyone who writes for Peace already has hope. Peace is mass virtue waiting to happen. The writer is more like a traveling agent selling tickets.