A Passage in time

 Ad Pacem

As Marcus Aurelius (Meditations) indicates, the quality of our thoughts determines our happiness. Not bothered, presuming quality, many flow like trunks caught up in rough currents, insensible to the rocks beyond – a shared experience, which leaves us breathless. 

Sometimes, we encounter this suffocating experience through a practised routine that outwardly intends to consolidate intimacy with the Magister – a varnishing of normality, which proves one way to escape from oneself so that ingrained restlessness is eclipsed.

Camouflaging this restlessness indicates the need to encounter the Magister despite claims to the contrary: in other words, the need to convert and embrace the Good News (Mk. 1,1) - to dip my hand into the same bowl as him without betraying him (Mt. 26,23).

Not to betray the Magister envisages a maturing self-understanding addressing our need to recline our head on his heart (Jn. 13,23), responding to his invitation: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Mt. 11,28).

Routine cannot disguise unresolved emotional issues nor replace the need for a renewed self-understanding, no longer frightened by its past or intimidated by the future.

However necessary, routine can transform into a jabbering when it becomes an endless monotony, signalling a lack of trapped fulfilment as demonstrated by Edgar Poe (A Dream Within a Dream)

Fulfilment associates with Metanoia: failing conversion but claiming it, we create a cage now reduced to ritualised monotonous practice underlined by self-righteousness, forgetful of the Magister’s observation: “I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (Lk. 18,14).  

This observation carries a warning because appearances can be misleading: a supposedly virtuous routine can camouflage personal misadventures. 

We must not deceive ourselves: routine must not distance us from the Magister by enclosing us in unquestioned subjectivity. It’s not enough to follow in Aristotle’s footsteps: to become what we do repeatedly.

Beyond the repeated action and our search for success, which has multiple meanings, it is necessary to consider faith as a lived-out experience, surpassing hollow words: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’ “ (Mt.7, 21-23)

This “Away from me, you evildoers” should awaken us from our slumber because, presuming understanding due to our success or pious practices, we fail discipleship by focusing on ourselves, ignoring the Magister. 

Arrogance accompanies and readily becomes the norm by which we judge others so that ‘our very eyes are sometimes, like our judgements, blind’ (William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, IV.2). Imitating Imogen in this opus, we wake up from a deep slumber, discovering the corpse nearby. Only this time it is not Cloten, but I.

Unsurprisingly, a lack of a maturing self-understanding limits our discipleship because focusing on me diminishes objectivity. Thus, we mitigate the possibility of conversion (Metanoia) because our shadow confines our comprehension: the ability to see as God sees.

Enclosed in our subjectivity, we confine God to a shadowy kiss and yet, believing we can speak in His name, we presume His Presence where none exists. It is, therefore, wise to remember, “A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool” (William Shakespeare, As You Like It, V.1). 

When the Magister is no longer the criterion by which everything else is measured, clear-mindedness fades: we justify our idiocies even as the praiseworthy transforms into a nightmare so that “if we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us” (1 Jn. 1:8).   

Imposing our will as our sole intent, ignoring the necessity of following the Magister and being challenged by his call to repent, we can still speak eloquently of the Magister and perform wonders in his name - the tragedy of those who claim the Magister but are unknown to him (Mt. 7,21-23). 

As Macbeth observes, the night is long that never finds the day - sometimes discipleship proves likewise: a long, unending night. Refusing to listen to the voice of my Magister, I make his voice my own: my call, my game, and my rules. If this attitude prevails, how can I see things as God sees them? 

My words merely reflect my shadowy self - meaningless babbling. I must, therefore, take these words to heart: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord, will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven”(Mt. 7,21).

The Magister’s yardstick challenges me when I pronounce the Pater Noster because it intends to awaken me from my slumber: to clearly understand the need of ‘self-emptying’ (Kenosis) as I seek ‘the will of my Father who is in heaven’. But this demands immediate personal conversion because veritas odit moras  - truth hates delay. 

We sometimes fear the truth because we prefer our self-created illusions. If honesty prevails, many of our doings are motivated by self-interest, not our search to do the Father’s will. Self-interests have many facets: for example, a desire to appear better in others’ sight proves a prevailing vanity that blinds. 

Yes, it is surprising how childishness underlines so much of our doings and our words. Thus, as the mirror reflects my reflection, I am reminded of the mantra of Snow White’s evil stepmother: Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the most beautiful of all? 

Paradoxically, though so many faces are encountered, none reflect the Magister’s because our face blinds us to his presence. Our hearts are so hardened that we cannot recognise his features even as we pronounce his name! 

Imposing ourselves as the highest authority, we are unwilling to be instructed. Consequently, we squabble among ourselves. We are, therefore, reminded: “We ask you, brothers, to respect those who are labouring among you and who are over you in the Lord and who admonish you, and show esteem for them with special love on account of their work. Be at peace among yourselves. We urge you, brothers, to admonish the idle, cheer the fainthearted, support the weak and be patient with all. See that no one returns evil for evil. Rather, always seek what is good for each other and all. Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing.” (1Thes. 5,12-17)

The insistence to “Pray without ceasing” reminds us of the need to be intimate with the Magister: ‘Cor ad cor loquitur’ (heart speaks to heart). This intimacy underlines our ‘wholeness’ (Shalom): in other words, to be at peace with ourselves, which underlines happiness.

Unfortunately, we sometimes twist happiness to endorse narcissism, forgetting that excessive self-love is a disorder even when promoted as a virtue.

The Magister’s rejection of those who did so many wonderful things in his name (Mt. 7,21-23) reflects this disorder because their success reflects immediate gratification as their objective: focused on vanity, it prohibited them from seeking the ‘Father’s will’ enshrined in committed love.

Dante points out (Purgatorio) that love alone is the true seed of merit: lacking it, we must atone for our actions.  

As Caravaggio eloquently portrays, Narcissus fell in love with his image reflected in a pool as light transforms into darkness: a bar-less cage.  

An unreasonably high sense of our importance dominates as we seek too much attention and yearn to be admired without necessarily caring about the ‘Father’s will’. Not even the Magister is spared as we use him to enhance our presence.

There is, therefore, much wisdom in the Magister’s insistence that discipleship doesn’t focus on the success of one’s doings but rather on the willingness to identify ‘the will of my Father who is in heaven’ (Mt 7,21-23; Jn. 6,38). The need to surpass the limits imposed by mere gratification and the ability to consider faith’s eschatological dimension underline this affirmation.

Despite the illuminations of success, restlessness accompanies because narcissism does not allow us rest: troubled and unfulfilled relationships consolidate a spirit of isolation strengthened by the need to be treated differently.

This attachment undermines discipleship because the latter involves an Augustinian discovery: Cor nostrum inquietum est donec requiescar in Te (our hearts are restless until they rest in You).

Mere gratification prohibits child-likeness but ingrains childishness because “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all” (Mk. 10,15). Childishness is self-focused: childlikeness is God-focused. That is why “Whoever humbles himself as this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Mt. 18,4). This proves challenging: “Brethren, do not be children in your thinking; yet in evil be infants, but in your thinking be mature” (1Cor. 14,2).

Faith’s eschatological dimension challenges us to see beyond the immediate: to identify with the Father’s will as we resolve to come after the Magister.

A danger underlines this comprehension: the temptation to identify this ‘coming after’ – Bonhoeffer’s Nachfolge - with an unchallenged subjective understanding that speaks of God but is unwilling to let these words challenge our hearts. 

Unresponsive, our stony hearts are imprisoned, unable to sustain our newness as time consumes us. Hence, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh” (Ezek. 36,26).

The smell of death is easily deduced when our discipleship is confined to pronounced words, marking our slavery as appearance replaces substance. 

We might presume innocence – the conviction of not doing wrong, because our subjectivity does not allow us to admit the darkness within, which can associate with our silence when confronted by injustice. 

Yes, it is impressive how this failure blinds! Yet, we have no trouble seeing others’ failures, which are undoubtedly used to emphasise our presumed innocence, or maybe, it allows us not to feel responsible for our actions. Hence, the Magister’s observation needs to be seriously pondered: “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your eye?” (Mt. 7,3)

Wholeness (Shalom), expressive of peace, is a passage in time that recalls Lysander’s insight: “The course of true love never did run smooth” (William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I.1). 

Martin