Works and Prayers of a Fils Prodigue

I intimated in my last post about my difficulies with the “mortification of desire” which St. John of the Cross speaks about. I trudged through the first book of The Ascent of Mount Carmel enthused but hesitant; convinced but confused. “How could I mortify all desire except the desire for God? Is that even possible?” “How do we enjoy the pleasures of the world which God has given us with detachment?” And so forth. I knew that his thesis was only the explication of the first commandment, and yet I was in darkness as to what the extent of the solution required.

I am pleased to say that John of the Cross deigned to explain himself further towards the end of Book I, just as any seasoned teacher gives his lecture and, scanning his class and seeing scrunching brows, perfectly anticipates their inquiries. John of the Cross learned such a method from the best scholastic scholars, who in their writings always anticipated the disputational dialogue of the listener. And so, after spending much time describing, with the Scriptures, the damage of desire — how it weakens, torments, defiles, darkens, and blinds the soul — John of the Cross looks up to his class and says “I see you’re having a problem; let me explain.” And so we ask:

1. “Are all desires equally harmful to the soul? It seems rather severe to think that we should mortify our entire will and all our affections!” No, not all desires are equally harmful to the soul. Being men, we are beset with natural desires not involving the use of will (I assume the Holy Doctor means desires to eat, sleep, breathe, drink, i.e. those concerned chiefly with the maintenance of the body and mind which are mandatory and desired without being willed — still, he does not specify beyond calling them “natural desires”). These cause no harm to the soul and are, as it were, nearly impossible to conquer in this life (and how evidently so!).

2. “What, then, are the desires which we should mortify?” While natural desires and in some cases involuntary imperfections do not present a great obstacle to Divine Union, it is the desires of the will itself which must be moritifed. Thus, the soul must desire only the will of God, and as such, “it must not intentionally and knowingly consent with the will to imperfections.” It must desire only what God desires, and must mortify these habitual imperfections which it knowingly chooses, and most especially voluntary venial sins and — it almost needn’t be said — the grave evil of mortal sin, which entirely blinds and darkens the soul. The soul, as it were, must remain detached from all things, being entirely “in Christ,” whose very meat and drink was the Will of God, and must not be attached to any creature for its own sake. In order to achieve this, though, the soul must not allow any imperfection or stain to remain, as John of the Cross emphatically points out:

For even as a log of wood may fail to be transformed in the fire because a single degree of heat is wanting to it, even so the soul will not be transformed in God if it have but one imperfection, although it be something less than voluntary desire; for, as we shall say hereafter concerning the night of faith, the soul has only one will, and that will, if it be embarassed [that is, made impure] by aught and set upon aught, is not free, solitary and pure, as is necessary for Divine transformation (52).

This will have to suffice for this issue — although perhaps I will post another entry concerning St. John of the Cross’s distinction between Privative and Positive Evil as it relates to desires, and how imperfections, venial sins, and mortal sins are the cause of such evil (Yes, it really is a whole nother post’s worth!) It should suffice to put our minds to ease, though, that John of the Cross is not referring emphatically to those desires which we can scarcely avoid. Rather, he merely exhorts us to point our entire will to Christ and mortify all those voluntary imperfections and sins which present an obstacle to absolute happiness.

3. “What must I do, then? I understand that desiring willfully the things of the earth creates a darkness in my soul, and that to attain divine union, I must desire God with my whole will. But, what can I begin doing now to bring about such a change?” This, in particular, was a major question I had. I am a doer, and so when presented with a discourse on a particular problem, my single desire becomes action. It is very well to convince me that the desire to fulfill pleasures and imperfections is disorderly; good, I am convinced! Now what?

St. John of the Cross does not disappoint, however:

These counsels for the conquering of the desires, which now follow, albeit brief and few, I believe to be as profitable and efficaciousas they are concise; so that one who sincerely desires to practice them will need no others, but will find them all included in these.

Although these counsels themselves comprise a lifetime of lectures and exposition, I will describe them as briefly as possible:

1. First and foremost, we must imitate Christ’s life. We must meditate upon it daily, and seek in all the ways available to our state in life to emulate Him. As we said above, love produces similitude between lover and beloved. As a wife with cold benumbed hands will grasp her husbands and be warm, so we must cling to our Lord and “draw near to him” in order to receive the smoldering warmth of grace.

2. We must deny ourselves bodily pleasure. We find this same exhortation in St. Teresa’s Way of Perfection, that the body must be conquered by denial. This is a rather simple lesson, easily stated and hardly attainable without great travail: whatever sensual pleasure does not glorify God must be spurned. If a particular film does not point us “Godward,” we should deny ourselves the privilige of seeing it. If certain music does not glorify God, we should deny our ears such pleasure. And so forth.

3. We should “strive always to prefer, not that which is easiest [delectable, pleasureable, restful, consoling, great, lofty, etc.] but that which is most difficult [unpleasing, wearisome, disconsolate, least, lowest and despised].” In doing so, we can begin “to desire to enter into complete detachment and emptiness and poverty, with respect to everything that is in the world, for Christ’s sake.” That one is fairly self-explanatory.

There are a few lines left, but they repeat essentially what is from above (or if they don’t, they require more explanation than is fitting for this post). The whole essence is complete self-denial in imitation of Christ producing a detachment and repose in the soul, paving the way for God to fill what has become void.

I, for one, appreciate John of the Cross’s honesty in this matter. Although he admits that such a mortification must go “gradually,” and so we should slowly and prudently mortify our will as St. Frances de Sales exhorts us, the way is not easy. It is indeed narrow and stony, and we should have no doubts that our knees will turn black and bloody, our hands scraped and raw, from such a trek. But isn’t it an envigorating feeling to receive a call, not below our dignity, but beckoning us to answer the voice of Christ? Don’t we breathe deeply as the voice resounds in our hearts: “You are a child of God, not to be bound by such paltry cords! You were created to glorify the Almighty Lord of Lords, and He has chosen to bring you into his Holiest presence and to give you all the joys and gifts of His spirit. Why remain outside in your shabby and sullied rags, when he has presented you with the wedding garment of His own son? (Matt. 22:12)” And so, may we all respond to such a call and leave our wretched rags behind, so that “we all beholding the glory of the Lord with open face, are transformed into the same image from glory to glory, as by the Spirit of the Lord” (2 Cor. 3:18).

In fine, I hope this post has helped illuminate at least a small part of St. John of the Cross’s work. I have no doubt that it helps me to explain it far more than it helps any of you to read it. But still, I hope it helps you all the same, and if it does, deo gratias!

This is tentatively what I’ll be taking:

1. Shakespeare and Philosophy

2. William Blake

3. Literary Ethnicity (Concerning how various groups write as “Americans” — my requisite “multi-cultural” course)

4. Classical Epics in English Translation

5. Modern Philosophy (Appears to be primarily Descartes, Berkley, Hume, and Kant)

Either #4 or #5 will be cut out if time gets tight — but I sure hope it doesn’t. Anyway, that’s my final schedule for my final semester at LSU. *single tear*

This just in from “The Marriage Bed” Dot-Com:

Were you aware that the Sacred Song, the Holiest Canticle of Canticles, the mellifluous mystical draught of the Saints, actually promotes oral sex? True story! Read all about it:

Oral sex is using the mouth to sexually stimulate a spouse’s genitals. It can be done as foreplay, or as a way of causing orgasm. As with manual sex, there are no hints of prohibition in the Bible, and many scholars of the Song of Songs are convinced that several passages describe oral sex being performed on both the man and the woman. (SS 2:3, the woman preforming oral sex on the man, and SS 4:16 and possibly 8:2 for the man doing it to the woman).

That’s right, folks! “Many scholars” opine that, rather than being an expression of spiritual love for Christ and His Bride (Or YHWH and Israel, for the Jews), the Holy Spirit really wanted to give us an image of human lust and depravity. Disregard the millenia of words of the Holiest of Men throughout the Ages – the Jews historically (and presently) have treated the book as a allegory of YHWH’s love for Israel; the Catholic Church, from Origin, Augustine, Bernard, John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Frances de Sales, has historically (and presently) taught the book as a mystical allegory for Christ and His Bride, the Church. What do they know, right?

Good thing we have “The Marriage Bed” Dot-Com to set us (and the rest of historical orthodoxy) straight! *headslap*

I am nearly one year past the legal drinking age of our dearest state, and as I’m wont to do from time to time, I must reflect. This has been my annus bibendi — my year of drinking. And what has come of it? What have I gained? What have I lost? It’s far too late for reflection — nearly midnight! — and with a dreadfully extensive philosophy midterm in just less than 12 hours looming in the distance, this is not an importune time to ponder. And yet we will ponder!

Let me first describe the nature of my drinking, which will illuminate my current reflections. First off, I have scarcely drunk hard liquors or wines. To be frank, I find hard liquor inappropriate for a Catholic. In my opinion, it by itself produces far too rapidly a drunken, stupid mind; it is associated, not with conviviality, but with excess and potency. As for mixing drinks, that is usually an expensive venture, which places liquor outside of my price-range. It is, as far as I can tell, a nearer occasion to the sin of drunkenness than I am comfortable with. Thus, I have largely avoided it, save during the heat of the summer when I splurged on a fifth of Jim Bean and some mint, making frosty mint-juleps to stave off the swelter. But, besides those tasty juleps, I haven’t touched the stuff in any real quantity.

As for wine, I could never oppose it on moral or social grounds — it is marvelously sacramental, bringing joy and laughter to those who enjoy it prudently. Still, I have yet to develop a taste for it, and so I rarely purchase it.

I am, as it were, a beer drinker. While I know of those who find that beer is some sort of “rot,” I thoroughly enjoy it. Its delights are diverse and complex. At times it is robust and nutty, at times crisp and bitter; sometimes spiced with herbs and cloves, and sometimes a straightforward amber brew. It brings forth in sensible men a jocular spirit, a deep warmth and friendship between bretheren. It is the drink of choice for the great activity of pub-house contemplation, in which men, young and old, can haggle out the grandest of mysteries. It’s true: I’m a fan of beer.

Considering the late hour, the reflection will begin in my next post.

“Far and few, far and few
are the lands where the Jumblies live;
They heads are green and their hands are blue,
and they went to Sea in a Sieve.”
– Edward Lear, “The Jumblies”

What could make a young man, walking briskly to his home while trying to outwit the impending rain, begin to sing a little tune, “walking, walking, walking down the street; stomping, stomping, stomping with my feet; thunder ahead fills his heart with dread of rain and hail and sleet” as though he were an imperiled ship captain spurring his tired feet to row on? I have an idea. The man is, first of all, likely to be a buffoon [I am]. Still, I’m beginning to think that the beauty of great literature — nay, of merely good literature — is not that it compels men to write symphonies, or to compose epics, but that it fills their hearts with simple poetry and simple thoughts. You can only read so many poems of Jumblies and the Moon and the Zhongy-Bhongy-Bo before you find yourself murmuring lyrics about taking a pot from the stove and putting the cornbread on to bake [pulling out the pot now puffing/ hoping yet for tasty stuffing].

One reading of A.A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh) or Kenneth Grahame (The Wind in the Willows), and one begins to see the merit of the good books: the joy, the poetry, the delight, the simplicity, the virtue, the friendship, the humor, the songs. They fill the heart; they make the dreary days seem shorter, as though they were the ripe satsumas begging to alight from their branches: you must pick them, lest they fall to the ground and rot!

“Beautiful” is not the right word – “beautiful” is cheap, overused, like the pair of degraded work shoes I used to wear as a server at Serrano’s and dishwasher at D’Agastino’s (hazy film over the black, cracking leather; soles flapping like the gaping jaws of a retarded mutt; the not-so-faint smell of rotting food and grime). No, “beautiful” says nothing but “I’m not creative at all and I don’t have anything remarkable to say about you. You are not special, just as your adjective is one that could be applied to the most mundane and wretched of women.” That’s not what one says to one’s bride, the flesh of one’s flesh, the ever-present bastion of love in one’s home. If I could say a word about Kelli, if I could reach down inside myself in the blood and guts and membranes and see what in God’s name would come up, it might be warmth. A strange translucent type of warmth – an ardent glow which, solid like an avocado at its center, is surrounded by fluffed feathers. Yes, warmth. Every time she stares across the dinner table, woefully aware of my glaring and habitual shortcomings (I am, sadly, very far from perfection), and every time she grins and strokes my now shorter hair while we lay together – I feel it. “Fieri sentio et excrucior”. “I feel it happen and am crucified.”

Maybe it’s why I married her. I found no other woman who, in spite of all the hassle of life-with-Ryan, can exude a glow and a warmth. Not like a womb. Nothing so strange or encapsulating, nothing so smothering. But more like the stove-top that warmed me as a child, waking up violently shivering in our blue rent-house which always managed to stay colder inside than it was outside (those times were colder, though, it seems – the puddles in the driveway would ice overnight. That just doesn’t happen anymore, I suppose). I imagine this tremendous heat comes about like a sort of friction with grace – not a bad friction, as you might try to limit in a combustion engine – but the result of a wisp of grace lighting a candle in a dark room, and beginning to spin a sewing wheel. That kind of heat, that kind of friction. Not just a material heat – the whirring of molecules – but a pulsating friction of grace dripping into her bones and flowing into me from her.

I suppose, truth be told, that I’ll spend the rest of my life making silly postulations about why Kelli makes me happy, why to her and her alone of all creatures I said non nisi te – “no one unless you.” Mark this down as one of my first: its her gracious friction, the smallest little ember which the Spirit softly brings to bright glowing in her. I feel her warmth, am crucified by it, and go out a better man.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve graced these pages with my quasi-intelligent musings on virtue, Christ, or less important aspects of modern life. My absence has not been due to any laxity on my part, considering that I have now received the sacrament of Matrimony and am also looking for gainful employment. Sadly, such life alterations leave little time for aesthetic pursuits, although the Matrimony brings blissful, gracious pursuits of its own — building a home and life together, learning to pray as a husband and pray for my wife [even the words! The words themselves tingle sliding from the tongue of my mind!], becoming a righteous and godly man through the joyful, mundane grace of this sacrament. Writing, sadly, takes a backseat to such things. Still, it is my hope that, having drawn closer to the good life, in which Kelli and My material needs are met, we may both allow greater freedom to our intellectual and creative pursuits.

I have decided, at long last, to begin writing more in print rather than online. Having desired one for some time, I am going to save up for a typewriter — I cannot handwrite for long, and computers are far too untrustworthy to contain one’s work. Thus, I’m opting for the best of both worlds — print copies that I can just type out. I hope to write fiction and non-fiction, and have already started on a story centering around one particular Southerner’s peculiar harrassment by his other parishioners in the confessional and his subsequent desire for total loneliness. I hope for more stories, though, and for a great habitus for writing. Also, I’m hoping to take Dr. Madden’s short story class in the Spring, as he is a reknowned writer and teacher (see: David Madden on amazon). Writing has often been a part of my life, even from my earliest years (I wrote in elementary quite a bit, and in middle school — I slowed in high school to a glacial pace). I’m often intimidated by other, more profficient writers — even like my friend, Brian. Some people seem to have a greater…knack for the art of writing. I am, however, enheartened by two nascent heroes of mine: Flannery O’Connor and Walker Percy. O’Connor didn’t really begin her writing career until college, and Percy didn’t begin writing fiction until his 40’s (after a somewhat unsucessful career in non-fiction — nobody read his works, and what good’s a work that no one reads?). Late-bloomers can be great writers as well — this is my hope.

I will write soon about marriage and orthodoxy, I hope.