Darkness at the Edge of Dawn
Contemplating human life with its infinite variability requires us to consider what a life fully lived might be like. How can we live creatively, and outside the arbitrary dictates drawn by society, and what might that life be? We admire those in history who dared dance outside the lines. Who had the courage to say, “yes, I was unwilling to be a paint by numbers artist, because I saw the stars, the beauty of the leaves of grass, and felt the freedom of the wind. Those things cannot be duplicated in the spread sheets you accept as art.”
Yet at the same time we vilify those who have broken those rules in our own time. We kill the prophets and then make them beautiful tombs. They do not fit into our understanding of the safe life. They do not fit into our neat “how to” books, or our guidelines and “best practices” manuals. Conventional society wants to love Jesus at a safe distance, but they are afraid to imitate his disregard for those who held the rules above human need; “the sabbath laws were made for humans, humans were not made for those laws.” We admire and write biographies of Buddha, Napoleon, Emma Goldman, and others, but we vilify their modern children. Why? Why do those of us who love life, who love the stories of these “heroes” of the past, fear living in their loving creative freedom ourselves? Why do we despise or fear those around us who do?
A quote I recently came across, from Donald Miller, seems to make the opening argument for what I wish to write;
“I’ve wondered, though, if one of the reasons we fail to acknowledge the brilliance of life is because we don’t want the responsibility inherent in the acknowledgment. We don’t want to be characters in a story because characters have to move and breathe and face conflict with courage. And if life isn’t remarkable, then we don’t have to do any of that; we can be unwilling victims instead of grateful participants.”[1] “
Unwilling victims,” perhaps we lack the courage to be anything else. Perhaps we truly need to be able to blame others, or the rules, so we do not have to be responsible for our freedom. Yet, maybe, just maybe, we can do something else, something better, higher, more loving, freer?
I wonder how we got to this place, wishing for the freedom that love requires, and yet believing it to be impossible. We believe there is no way we can truly live fully in love and kindness, and yet the heart demands that it find a way. It is a false antinomy that we face. Love and kindness undermine the rules, and the rules destroy love and kindness. What if love and kindness WERE the rules? We can imagine it.
Often, we have begun our journey to this loving empire of freedom and chance, filled with excitement and hope — then, just as we arrive at its gates, decided it will be too much for us to bear. Why is it that we cannot find a way to release ourselves from something as seemingly powerless as love and kindness, yet also remain bound to follow the cruel rules of a society that wars against that love and freedom. A society that demands we live as if life is an IKEA instruction manual. We are constantly being torn on the rack of these competing claims to our loyalty. Between the freedom of love and the cruel order of the powers. Yet, it is a false dichotomy, in our hearts we do believe that love wins. That the weak and foolish kiss on the cold bloodless lips of Dostoyevsky’s “Grand Inquisitor” spelled not only his doom but the doom of his power and the might of his empire. Even small weak acts of love, kindness, and gentleness in the face of a powerful and cruel social order, expose the weakness of the order and spell its doom.
But love is mixed in human hearts. In these cruel apelike beasts, lost and far from Eden, love can be both selfish and completely giving — sometimes at the same time. This mixture in us is the dilemma; we are susceptible to the fear of punishment, misunderstanding, and a lack of our own self-awareness. Yet, despite those flaws, it is better to have been known as someone who attempted to live in the freedom of love and kindness, even if it fails to be completely pure, than to be known for enforcing law and cruelty. Attempted love, attempted kindness, these things are greater than the will to power. The pain of love is hard but the hope we find in that love makes the pain worth it. We hope.
With this introduction in mind, I wish to tell a parable. This parable is a tale of the human condition, it may be all of us, or none of us, or some of us. To write this tale, I need to step away from my own humanity and looking backward, tell a tale for us all. If you recognize yourself here, it is because you too are human, all too human. If you do not recognize yourself here, then I wish you good passage on whatever journey you are on.
The Parable
He awoke from his dream, as he had so many mornings before. The sunlight spilled gently across the brightly colored wall paper in his room. The coffee smell came in from the next room. All seemed well, all seemed right, the morning routine pushed the trouble that dream posed into the background. For now.
[More to come]
[1] Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.
