Thursday, February 26, 2015

Unworthy

Sitting on the altar in a rehearsal in the Krijtbergkerk in Amsterdam, I read the Latin words embedded in the Catholic floor. Basically the sign said “Of God, we are not worthy.”

I confess I have a mini mental obsession with a celebrity who now lies in a coma, and I will not mention her name. Her mother, a famous singer, died a few years ago under circumstances involving drugs. The family is praying fervently for the daughter, their flesh and blood, their image. For here it is, the daughter was raised in a house where drug use and abuse was rampant and now she lies in a coma and drugs are suspected in the scenario that led to her hospitalization.

Who are we worthy of if not God? This is the question that I asked myself gazing in confusion at the floor in the church. I grew up in a house where every day the object of exercise was to at some point get high. Not me, I have never professed any interest in drugs. In fact, it’s not pride, but total distain for that exercise that turned me away from pursuing such a habit. Deep down in me reflecting about the woman in a coma who followed the lead of her parents, I think, “That child was stupid and weak and blind.” Therefore, however erroneous this line of thinking is hypothetically speaking, it follows that I myself am somehow alive and strong. And then somewhere in me I believe she was destined to die. Aren’t we all? But what I really mean is that I believe she was not fit for Darwinian survival. 

Am I being cruel? Vengeful? Ignorant? Playing God? What was she supposed to do with her life?  Perhaps she herself had little inspiration about the matter. Perhaps she was full of sweet dreams and still, perhaps, dreams although the shortage of oxygen to her brain when she was found may impair this facility. But, bare bones, reproduce, basically is what we do, and her parents did this admirably. (I have failed and have no regrets.)

“We are all beautiful in God’s eyes.” Ah! Massive global improvement. No matter what we do, it all evens out in the end. Is this permission to be run of the mill? Or does it raise us all to heights unknown?

Reading the words on the floor, I felt an urge to prostrate myself over them, lick the mosaic, taste the subjugation. Apparently this pretty much is what an addict craves, the kick of being bad, down trodden to some day achieve, even beg for, the height of Almightly grace, dead or alive. 

I ruefully surmised that this whole idea I was carefully examining was demonstrative of a type of belly button mindset geared towards self destruction, an disastrous ego trip. Easter is coming up, let Christ hang on the cross for our sins, and in the meantime I think I will make myself an Easter basket. A nice yellow one with pink ribbons and baby chicks formed of marshmallow, candy bunnies, and chocolate eggs, all made in the image of animals we love to slaughter.

 

 

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