The Distance of Holy Discontent
š„°sustenanceš„°
Itās Christmas everyday, they say. I am listening to āItās Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmasā on YouTube Music Premium using my brand new Jabra earbuds my first brother got for me before Christmas and the electricity my father is paying for.
While I describe my rich privilege, I can feel (very small) stabs of guilt, I remember the following verses.
Looking at the man, Jesus felt genuine love for him ā¦ he had many possessions. (Mark) (source)
I also know I am just making up a lot of garbage here. A lot of messed-up, nonsensical theology. I am still going in with it (at least I am not asking for money, praise, and building up a real personal empire like all those cultic leaders out there) trusting that whoever makes the most mistakes wins (Richard Farson & Ralph Keyes).
I will makes the most mistakes with my theology so that I might wins freedom in ISHO (Neil Anderson).
šthoughtsš
When you meet one of the heavenly ones ā true Christians, not religious Christians ā sheep, not goats ā it really hurts to see how they are.
They are often strangely happy. So happy that my gloomy self rebels against the sight of such mirth. My envy for their joy becomes irrepressible. I rather look away. Itās painful to see such a state when one is in such pain.
Other words to describe them. Tenacious. Hard-working. Realistically optimistic.
Then the šof envy become tolling. The theories begin to brew, as I begin to judge how they got where they are.
Let me illustrate with a example. I began attending a Bible Study Group at the beginning of this year. It so happened to be place where my first crush hung out as well. I had even gone on an all reason rampage in my diary to justify to myself that I was not going there to see her, to be around her (Oh, how I lied to myself. But you make things up when you are not honest about your own feelings). To my chagrin, I saw people filled with joy and mirth. We were studying Matthew, and coming across the passage about sheep and goats (Matthew ā¦), all I could seem to think to myself was ā¦ that I was a goat.
I was a goat. I was a goat. The voice that said this was incessant.
I could feel my heart being wrenched from the inside. Tears begging to reach out, wanting to pour out of my eyes down my face. A tear or two probably got out. I didnāt want people to see my tears. Not in front of people who I have only been around for a few weeks. The surface pressure was building, nonetheless.
My father had tried to reassure me that real goats never saw themselves as goats. They wouldnāt even care about whether they were a goat or a sheep. It was a small consolation that did not do much.
Being a goat amongst sheep, I could feel the difference. Sheep seemed so happy. I was so down and broody. Sheep could smile and talk at length about many things. I could only frown and have no words. Sheep probably didnāt question what they heard. I was questioning all the time.
This whole debacle reminded me of the story of Lazarus and the rich man.
In Hades, where he was in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham far away, with Lazarus by his side. (Luke 16)
I felt like this man. In torment, in suffering, while he saw the goodness afar, forever out of his reach.
It was like I was from Hades, whose gates are guarded by Cerberus, and all these Bible Study sheep were from Paradise.
If I was to act like one of Jobās friends, I would explain my own torment. My reason-less travel in physics for roughly a decade. My (once) hidden addiction to pornography (from pirate manga sites, YouTube, Dailymotion, and occasionally Pornhub) for more than a decade. My addiction to games for roughly a decade. All sins that explain my current torment. I deserved my pain. I shunned society, so I languish in darkness because of me.
I am both the villain and the victim.
I remember hearing the statement that ālife is hardā. I had a single discussion about this with my Bible Study leader over coffee, and remember, amongst tears, I asked āhow hard is it meant to beā. He couldnāt answer me. This was a moment when I realised words can only say so much.
Words only mean as much as we associate with them. Like my psychologist alluded to, when the Italian says something is hard, it means really hard. Being Chinese, when something hard, it is really hard.
āāNo, father Abraham,āĀ he said, ābut if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.ā (Luke 16)
Nothing to do with the above.
This is the point to all you true believers out there. Be sure to know that those who have not born again will find it really hard to be where you are. To feel the joy you experience. Please be patient with them, because it fucking hurts when they compare your joy (for how could they not, in this world of extreme comparison, when data of peopleās lives are constantly floating around?) with their suffering.
If they canāt see God, if they canāt feel God, go easy on them. If life is hard enough already, why add anymore to their burdens.
May the chant of the beloved not press those who feel unbeloved further down in their suffering. This world, as you know, my fellow netizens, is filled with suffering.
Weep with those who weep. Enrage with those who enrage. Be everything to everyone, so that you might win them to Christ.
One caveat to the last line. Everything does not include the forbidden fruit of sin, of the knowledge of good and evil. But fear not, nearly all things are permissible.
We just like to call the apple poisonous when itās not. We just like to call masturbation sin when it is not. We just like to call good things bad when they arenāt.
There are only a few real rules. Most of them are fake rules. Break the fake rules, and you might find that keeping the real rules is effortless.
Nearly all of you readers are keeping the real rules without even knowing it. Keep going.
š«onenessš«
I saw on my brotherās feed that Kanye West has started wearing a mask. A ski mask, from the look of it, without the holes. I am glad I am on the same page with him. Let us both remain faceless.
Here a few pieces of the quiet life (ā¦). Remaining nameless, faceless, voiceless.
Names donāt matter when itās just business (Lucky).
Faces and voices can be faked anyway (ā¦).
šbroken rulesš
This piece was not written up to my perfect standards.