When Mercy Seasons Justice...

"It is an attribute of God himself;

And earthly power doth then show like God's

When mercy seasons justice"

Mercy

Perhaps the greatest virtue, the one most unexpected, the one most... unusual, is mercy. A man with no jurisdiction cannot exhibit it. Unlike kindness, generosity, and love it requires one to have complete power over the thing which receives mercy. Indeed, it requires one to have the power of tyranny. It requires even the suspension of other virtues. It requires a comprehension and love of justice, and yet it tempers justice. It restrains, and it achieves its utmost expression, its perfection, only in a being who is both omnipotent, and perfect in justice. But most unusual of its attributes, unlike any other virtue, it cannot be deserved, it is annihilated if it is warranted at all. Thus, there can be no formula for the receipt of mercy.

Unlike other virtues, its effect is also different. If we receive generosity, or kindness, it is received best when we acknowledge our external circumstances. It is appreciated when we see that we are poor, or destitute. In these cases, however, it is possible to maintain some pride about one's self. If mercy is received well, it requires the total eradication of our sense of self. We must see the wretchedness within us, and feel the justice of what would be our reward. When we are thus, and receive mercy instead, the divine love is conveyed. That love which is given without any demand, without even the possibility, of repayment. In this light, all of the debts and justices which are owed to us must pale in comparison. If we are infinitely wretched, and have received mercy, then how can the sins of other against us --which rarely manifest the true depth of wretchedness in their souls-- have any consequence? These things become easily forgiven.

But, if we believe ourselves to have even an iota of merit, then the effect of mercy is transformed into something altogether grotesque. We see that mercy has granted us the opportunity to continue as we are, to remain unchanged. In many cases, we see it as an opportunity for profit in the most base of senses. Christ tells a parable of a servant who is forgiven a great debt. The units of money are deceptive, but the debt (10,000 talents of silver) is equivalent to the wages of 200,000 years of work for a simple labourer. An impossible debt, but he is gripped only with a desire to take advantage of his good fortune; a desire to live for himself.

Clearly, this latter kind of person does not understand the gravity of what he has received. It is not, however, a rejection of mercy, he simply does not understand mercy as concept or experience. Its significance has passed him by. He could be said to be in a state of despair, precisely the kind of despair in which one is unaware of his own despair. The kind of state that cannot acknowledge itself in any form. So, let us move beyond such a hopeless individual, and consider only one who does understand the gravity of mercy.

Darkness

It has been said that despair is the sickness unto death. That is to say, Christianly understood, no sickness is unto death, since death is the end of the sickness, but death is not the end. However, despair is a sickness which goes beyond death. A sickness of the spirit which cries out to be destroyed, but which cannot die. Despair is the sickness unto death precisely because death is the end and the end is death, but the despair is precisely that it is impossible to be rid of oneself, to die in spirit.

But, what could be the source of such a magnificent despair? Answers have been given elsewhere, characterizing despair in each individual form that it can be encountered. But, here we are interested only in this latter sort of person. That is, the kind which understands the gravity of mercy. The kind which believes God to be a being perfect in justice, righteousness, and love, and so too, by necessity, perfect in mercy. We shall endeavour to imagine ourselves to be this person. Indeed, it may be that we ourselves are not too far afield! Far from being a person blissfully happy, we may find this person in as much or greater despair than the former type (which we have decided to ignore). This latter person, at least, has a much greater chance of having knowledge of her own despair, and therefore, by necessity, a much greater capacity to experience it. But the sword wielded by this form of despair is double edged: she has an equally magnificent chance of destroying it as well -- though not by her own action.

...

At one time, things were simple. Things were known. What was known was not particularly pleasant, just a series of hardships, a crucible of a life that had served to refine her into something, though she was not entirely certain what the goal had been. As it was, these were simply the facts. Cruel or not, it simply was. Perhaps the only thing she knew for certain, was that she did not love whomever she was. For a long time, this was not such a huge problem. She had discovered that she could lose that self which she did not love in relationships. She could lose it by refusing to be herself, and only to be herself through others, that is, not to be herself, but a self which was bound up and lost in the self of another. Perhaps these other selves seemed more stable, more confident. Regardless, they certainly lacked the character -- at least to her knowledge -- that horrified her so much in her self.

She had some religious conviction, if you could call it that. There were things that she would not do. They were 'morally' wrong, yes? Regardless, if only she did not do those things, at least the hideous self could be kept, to some extent, in its place. These convictions stemmed from some vague acknowledgement of the existence of a god. This god was not so important. He seemed far off. Regardless, he was in no way effective upon her self. Her self was something which she had to deal with herself. It would have been a magnificent reconciliation to interpret that life in light of such a God as is Christianly understood, but it was easier to leave the concept more nebulous. Thus, the dark pit became only so much noise in her peripheral vision.

And it failed. The relationships proved to be unsustainable. They ended, one after another, each a more desperate attempt than the last at losing her self, and yet her self remained. This was, indeed, the entire problem. Like a leech feeding upon a weak host, without a self to contribute love and compassion, joy and kindness, grace and mercy, a relationship, a symbiosis, as a natural consequence, whithers and dies. But she was not without a place to turn, no, she had become aware of a different kind of person in the midst of her weak grasping. This person, though by no means lacking in the type of despair that she herself experienced, did not seek to ignore his self, but to eradicate its insufficiencies through a perfected understanding of its meaning; circumstance and consequence. In this way, his despair was more masculine, as it sought to reconcile itself before God -- an impossibility. Unnaturally, this man became a Christian.

And so it was that she became aware that perhaps her religion was not something peripheral to her self, but could be yet another thing in which to lose her self. And what kind of God was this? She heard stories of a God of infinite love, of infinite justice. A God who would not overlook one such as her, lost and trodden upon by a life so cruel as this, a person with no real place to turn. A person who could not gaze away from darkness. A God also infinite in mercy. Perhaps this God could be a place to lose her self. And so she studied. She whiled away her hours on theology and wise men. She sought the things which she thought believers were to seek. A Christian life, understood through the lens of so much Christian cultural bias. A life in community, a life with worship, a life with reflection -- though not upon her self, as it should have been --, maybe even a life in Christian union. For a while, she found joy and friendship and love like she had never experienced before. She found a type of life which had hitherto been indescribable to one such as herself. She thought that perhaps HERE was something which would allow her to be rid of her self.

And it failed. By knowing the nature of God, she had come to believe in the existence of a thing which was altogether more luminous, more astoundingly beautiful, more powerful, than any she had thought existed. But! She had not moved closer to him by knowing him in this way. Further, her wise men failed her. They could not move her closer to Him. On the contrary! They often could only move her far away, for they themselves were not so close at hand as to draw her nearer to Him. And so the question which had so long haunted her, had so long tormented her in studying this God, finally congealed into an expressible language. She cried out, as one crying out in the darkness, "How can I know that I am the object of His mercy?"

And the darkness which had been held at bay, the darkness which was pushed below, which before could be ignored, this darkness came flooding in. She awoke, and realized that she had to think for herself, believe for herself, stand alone, in opposition to her self. Who would stand with her now? Where was this God? Where was His mercy? And here it was, her self. With nothing else left to do, she, like an addict, returned to all of those things which had seemed so insufficient in the past. After all, what was Sin anyway, in the face of such a despair? These things promised a kind of warmth, a kind of bliss, a kind of removal from the darkness. Even if it was miniscule, temporal in the most base of senses, it was still relief.

And it failed. But, the failure did not produce a change of action, only a change of heart. If she stood now, against a God who would not eradicate her self, then perhaps it did not actually matter what she chose. Perhaps it was best to settle. If she could not truly be rid of her self, then she would have to endure to the end, hoping for death, but knowing that even death is not the end of despair, for despair is precisely the inability to die, to consume one's self, to cease to be a self. Understood this way, Sin is precisely to be in despair at all. So she took what comfort she could, and she stood in opposition to God, a testament to His divine Imperfection.

And it failed.

...

Our poor child! But what could she have done? What went wrong? Perhaps it was in this: that the destruction of the self is not the way out of despair, since the self has an element of the eternal and cannot be destroyed. Instead, one must be reconciled to one's self. Alone, however, one cannot be reconciled to a self so repugnant as we find ourselves possessing. God, Christianly understood, does not desire an eradication of our selves. He, indeed, created them as they are. He is the author of our story, and we, as the words, cannot stand up to the author and declare that his authorship is in error! On the contrary, the author bends what is acceptable in order to produce what is actually beautiful. It is an art, and in God this art is perfect. So perhaps the charge is thus: to rest transparently in that which created us, trusting that in his divine wisdom, our selves are as they were meant, and will one day be as they should be, when the work is complete, our place will not be in vain. Perhaps then, this is the mercy of God: to allow our selves to be at rest in him.

In any case, a person with firm knowledge of God and themselves has their psychological disposition determined entirely by whether or not they are certain that the mercy of God has been showered upon them. There emerge, at the two ends of the spectrum, a fascinating result. That is, absolute knowledge that the mercy of God is directed only upon others, and not on one's self, is a state whose only logical conclusion is an absolute rejection of every virtue which takes part in the divine. Its perfect embodiment is in Lucifer himself, who rages against every part of God's creation which has received His mercy. It is loathsome and intolerable.

On the other hand, absolute knowledge of God's mercy for oneself can only lead one to rest in every aspect of the divine virtues. This type of person truly shines forth the divine light on the world, and its perfect embodiment is in the Christ, who, being the Son of God, knew his father's love as only a first-born son can.

But do any of us feel this kind of rest? By this very lack, the dilemma stands: how can we know that we are saved?

Enigma

At one time, Christ called to Judas also, and said, "Come, and follow me", as he had done to each one of those other venerable disciples, and yet, was Judas not to receive mercy? He travelled with his companions, listened to the teaching of Christ and saw wonderful works, how could he remain unchanged? It is even so that he must, at one time, have shown a strong faith and love because he was given charge of the common wealth of the group, to be used to provide for themselves and sooth the needs of the poor.

But sin was powerful in Judas.

As it does with all of us, it must have started small. "I will buy myself extra food today", he said to himself, "because I have given much, and worked hard to help these destitute". But if Sin is fed, it will grow, and grow it did. Into what did it grow?

Judas is a bit of an enigma, and the Written Word does not necessarily resolve our view of him. There are, in fact, two deaths of Judas in the New Testament. In one, he commits suicide. In the other, he dies accidentally. This difference is perhaps deceptively simple. Unnoticed.

Variations

I

Judas arose from supper with a plan. Jesus claimed he was to pass away soon, so why not take advantage of the political unrest which He was creating? He would go to the chief priests, and his service would be greeted with a substantial reward. Perhaps some sum of silver. After meeting the priests, his belly still full of food, and now his pockets full of silver, he felt particularly satisfied with himself.

Later, Judas approached Jesus in the garden. He was followed by a great throng, and intended to kiss Jesus so as to show the crowd whom it was that they were seeking. But, he was caught by surprise.

"Would though betray the Son of Man with a kiss?"

"Certainly rabbi, for as you said, it is not I, but Satan within me who compels me to betray you. Jerusalem! This is your man!"

And, standing to the side, he watched as the crowd seized Jesus. He snorted at the pathetic attempt by the disciples to protect him. And, satisfied that the job for which he was paid was now complete, he went his way.

He found out only much later the result of the trial. He was surprised to learn that the punishment for Jesus was so severe. He was expecting, perhaps, a beating and exile. But, people will do many unexpected things. Regardless, it was not he who killed Him, but the overexcited crowd making unreasonable decisions. Otherwise, the day was young, and Judas was taking his new wealth to buy a place for himself. Some place where he could live a comfortable life.

Later, he found his field. A beautiful place. He gazed upon it as the sun set over a nearby hill, satisfied with his actions. Walking across it, he tripped and fell. He caught his abdomen on a rock, and much to his surprise, his bowels gushed out upon the ground. Just before he passed out, he perhaps considered the irony.

II

Judas arose from supper with a plan. Perhaps he saw that, if Jesus did pass away, as he had been continually telling them, then Judas could no longer find his income through the money of the group. Further, the political unrest in Jerusalem made him certain that he would be well rewarded if only he informed the authorities of Jesus' location. He thought, perhaps, that after a public trial, and probably a beating, Jesus would be turned out of Jerusalem. Maybe not much worse for wear.

So he went, and he received his silver.

When Judas approached Christ in the garden, he led a great throng, and, approaching Christ to greet him (and thus, expose him to the mob), he was caught by surprise.

"Would thou betray the Son of Man with a kiss?"

The shame was certainly too much, but things had been put in motion, and could not be stopped now. Judas ran through the crowd, keeping his head down so that he could no longer be seen by his companions. He stole into the night.

Watching Jesus' trial from a corner, he hoped beyond hope that no harm would come to him. He hoped that his act of betrayal would, in the end, turn out to be nothing. Perhaps he could even return to Him afterwards, and, seeking forgiveness, be granted it by one such as this, who can forgive sins. But as the night went on, the anxiety only increased, and Judas sank into despair as it became clear that Jesus would be condemned to die. The insanity had seized the Jerusalemites, and they were now more willing to free a murderous criminal than acquit a man who had truly done nothing wrong. As Jesus was tortured and led out with the cross, Judas quietly went to the priests, dropped the money at their feet, and cried out "Take back this evil wage, for I have sinned against an innocent man." The crowds were all at the trial, and so Judas walked through quiet streets. He saw a beggar against the wall, a blind man. If he had had anything to give, he certainly would have given all of it. But he had nothing. He had thrown down all of his wealth at the feet of his tempters. At that moment, he knew he could do nothing to replace the man whom he had betrayed. There would be none like him, and he would die. There would no longer be a man who could take halt the decay of this world. No longer a man who could truly sooth the wounds in our spirit. He knew that for the rest of his life this fact would torment him. He would never sleep, never eat, and never find joy in any earthly thing. After gazing upon something so divine, he could see only decay in everything. But, he knew how to alleviate the pain. He took a length of rope, and found a lonely tree in a barren field.

Reconciliation...

The fruit of Judas was twofold, in the one hand, Judas' betrayal of Christ brought about a resting place for those who are poor in spirit. Analogously, the return of the 30 pieces of silver, which the priests used to buy the potter's field, yielded a place of rest (burial) for "strangers". A closer examination enlightens us. These strangers were precisely the indigent poor, those without possessions, housing, or a means for making a living, the totally disabled. Thus, his fruit is a place of rest for the poor, both spiritual and physical. This latter is precisely the fruit of his repentance. It is odd that such a man should produce these things.

But, in the end, what did Christ say to Judas himself? In the first type of Judas, perhaps nothing was said, this Judas was in the state of despair which does not even acknowledge the eternal in his self. But, in the second type, we see a man who, perhaps, received mercy without knowing it. He at least had some knowledge of his self, and that it stood in some relationship to the eternal. At least, in a relationship to the eternal idea of the fountain of life, whom he supposed to have ended. Perhaps Christ, after the ascension, said to Judas "Did I not call you also? Peter too, betrayed me, but, instead of money, he desired to save himself from the power of men. So, Judas, do you love me? Rise and follow." This would be the utmost mercy, even greater than the thief on the cross, who could do nothing, but could at least express his joy at the mercy of Christ in this life. He had some fruit, some visible sign. Judas would have had none, and yet would be plucked out of despair and misery greater than any we may possibly imagine.

One may cry out at this possibility, for Judas is, in church tradition, the embodiment of all that we despise in mankind, but I justly inquire as to whether or not any of us feels closer to the other venerable Disciples than we do to Judas. What then, for us?

But perhaps I am too harsh, perhaps there is more hope than what first appears, in either this (probably apocryphal) interpretation, or in another place. That place is this: if we have received mercy, and we have received it properly -- knowing its necessity as well as its gravity --, then we cannot help but have it change us. It is a force that is more powerful than our will to be or not to be our selves against God. But most of us do not feel fully this fruit. We are in a nebulous space of doubt. But, knowing these things, we must certainly cry out in prayer that it would not be the case that we would be one of these types. We should plead that mercy would have meaning for us, that it would change us, and that we would be able to reconcile our selves to God. Otherwise, we are embracing this descent into despair, to the point of standing in opposition to the only thing which can save us from it. Christ himself.

Style adjustments

After asking my friends for comments on this blog, I noticed that with fair frequency the complaints fell mostly to "length". That is, the posts are too long. Thus, for this post, I will try to characterize the essence of my mission without giving you 2100 words.

"Things are probably more complicated than you imagine them to be, and your answers show a disrespect for the questions, which always have far more gravity than you are comfortable with."

However, I do have to apologize for the fact that the post a posteriori to this post will actually be longer than the previous post by a substantial amount (even though it could probably be divided into 2-4 posts). I feel that as a whole, it has some benefit in being presented as one, so as to reinforce the relationships in the text. In the future, I hope I can think of shorter topics (see above, this may not be possible).

... We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Like blind men in a cold room.

"Truly, truly, I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."

The greatest sin in human history has brought about the greatest Grace. Christ was witnessed against by liars, condemned by the proud to die a slow and agonizing death, killed by the very people who, at one time, had followed him, and finally was innocent. Yet, took upon himself all the wrath and justice of God, so that the sins of all may be atoned.

The fall of all of mankind in one ultimate unjust action proved to be their very salvation. Because of the presence of Sin, by necessity, Grace comes out of a falling away. To come by any other way is to deny the state of Sin, and to deny the state of Sin is to deny the necessity of Grace, and by denying the necessity of Grace, we cannot make the transition from a state of Sin to a state of Grace. It is a truly worthless effort.

Then, in almost every case, where we see God at work we will find Sin abounding. We feel the brokeness of the world at every moment. We are intimately familiar with the way it feels. Interestingly, the necessity of this particular world is still a thing totally alien to us. We do not know why the seed must die, and we can rarely see the fruit that it produces. Not necessarily because it is so miniscule, but because we cannot understand the necessity of the method. It, in fact, remains a great mystery even in higher theology. The theologian says that the necessity of the world is to glorify God, and yet to all but the most zealous --a property of a man which may turn out to be a diversion from the truth--, this is somehow unsatisfying. It somehow seems to be a cop out, and when looked at closely --like so many ways of explaining what perhaps cannot really be explained-- it seems far too simple to convey the truth of the matter.

Human beings are characterized by an almost insatiable hunger for something we can't quite seem to place our collective grasp upon. The preacher of Ecclesiastes finds the world to be full of satisfaction which is like the breath of the wind. It passes, and it is gone. "All the toil of man is for his mouth, yet his appetite is not satisfied." Then, the charge can be seen: to have an appetite which can be satisfied. But to what do we turn? Wisdom, wine, and a wife. These can all be sought and enjoyed. They can even make the heart merry. But, if these things are also fleeting, how can we love them? When we seek these things with passion, with zeal, what are we really seeking? It rarely seems that our passion is directed towards what is impermanent or ultimately unsatisfying, but something intrasient, something altogether satiating. When the hunger only increases, we remain merely puzzled. Continuing in this manner, it seems possible to consume everything. Certainly, Solomon claims to have done just this.

So, is the solution to cease to have passion for things? If we cannot love things as they are, but only as they are not, then our passion can only destroy us. We may justly charge the church with castrating the passions of her constituents at every possible turn, under the pretense of protecting them from themselves. That is, from their sin. Were the barbarian tribes of Europe made better, more excellent, by their forced indoctrination? They were once 'free' men --conquerors-- unrivaled in courage. They had no fear, and then they were filled by the priests with every manner of fear, so that their spirits were broken. They became like blind men in a room with a single poison needle: they dared not grasp to find their way. They became, in some sense, hollow shells of their former glory. Often, the church's solution to sin is to cut off that which inflames the passions, and yet, in so doing, men are left on a clear road to ennui. The fire of humanity is quenched. But what are we to do? Continue to sin that we may remain passionate? And thus lies the problem. Without passion, what good are we as christians?

Interpretted in this light, the charge to "tear out our right eye" takes on a defeated tone. If we cannot see, then look away.

Here, the morality of self-denial becomes a shame to the person who, by necessity, must deny himself. The greater the need, the greater his shame. Self-denial is the last possible reason for self-righteousness, and those who by necessity withdraw from this world should have the greatest shame, the greatest despair, should feel the farthest from their God. They are the least able to see. They are blind, because, in an effort to be righteous, they have torn out all of their eyes. Together, they have become vessels useless to God in this world. For them, Grace cannot even exist, because they have removed the possibility of seeing it.

What use then, is preaching? I can say to a blind man, "Look, here is a beautiful painting, or look, here is an ugly painting", no matter how much detail I present in describing the paintings, in the end, a blind man is still blind. He cannot see either the beautiful or the grotesque. In the same way, the preacher declares the ways of the world, and describes the unreality of perceived reality. But we are still blind, and his effort does not hasten the coming of righteousness. His four points for today's sermon fall on deaf ears. We do not correct our sin in this manner. It is wholly inadequate.

This seems to point at an alternative definition of Sin, independent of the actions of man, which seems to identify the qualities of "original sin" in man. Sin is not an object, or an action (as in the violation of the law). Man's sin is simply that he is blind. Either of himself, by willfully wearing wool over his eyes, or as a result of the character of mankind after the fall, something inate, something born in him. Now, we have defined Sin in such a way as to avoid the problems inherent in other realizations. In some cases, there exists a heirarchy of holiness, wherein the actions of a man can bring him closer to God. Here, his actions are merely an effort to protect himself from his blindness. He is still blind. In these other cases, it remains unclear how we can all be equal under the criteria of sinfulness, yet here it is clear. We are all blind.

But then, what are we to do? We seem to have only two options. Pursue the unreality passionately, knowing full well the consequences, or cower in fear, and live as disabled human beings.

As to the first, what we love is always dimmed by the veil through which we view it. We cannot pull it back ourselves, because this would constitute self-salvation, under our definition of Sin. But, need we fear what lies beyond? Will the truth destroy us because of our attachment to the lie? Probably. Then, it would take a truly courageous being to not fear the moment when we see the thing as it truly is. When the edifice is annihilated, and we find ourselves painfully exposed to the truth, do we embrace this path? Perhaps not.

As to the latter of the two approaches, I think enough has been said.

However, in our blindness, we should have some hope. The historical church has often, in an attempt to 'cure' the problem of humanity's blindness, advocated the casting off of the world. Hence, the monk -- under our treatment, the most despairing of all beings. He denies all worldly good, in an effort to seek after something intransient, but the underlying assumption that there are no things truly worth loving in this world must be a lie. Consider the Christ, a man without sin. If he was truly without Sin, then it must be the case that he saw the world as it truly is; that he saw beyond the veil to the true nature of things. Yet, far short of falling into complete despair, he experienced joy abounding also. There must be something truly beautiful and worth loving here, if Christ would die to preserve it.

I am no expert in poetry, but among the poets I have read, Ron Padgett has managed to capture some aspect of Christ's vision of the world in a small poem call "Fixation". Padgett has a knack for pulling the fuzzy, out of focus, background of an image or situation into prominence. Though, admittedly, he is probably not canonical. Anyway:

It's not that hard to climb up

on a cross and have nails driven

into your hands and feet.

Of course it would hurt, but

if your mind were strong enough

you wouldn't notice. You

would notice how much farther

you can see up here, how

there's even a breeze

that cools your leaking blood.

The hills with olive groves fold in

to other hills with roads and huts,

flocks of sheep on a distant rise.

Here, in the midst of agony, Padgett's image of Christ shows him looking out over creation, and finding it to be beautiful. Worth saving.

Even the preacher of Ecclesiastes, who claims to have tested all the pleasures of the world, and found them all tepid, advocates that there is some joy in the world, but not without a warning.

As you do not know the way the spirit comes to the bones in the womb of a woman with child, so you do not know the work of God who makes everything.

In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.

Light is sweet, and it is pleasant for the eyes to see the sun.

So if a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all; but let him remember that the days of darkness will be many. All that comes is vanity.

Rejoice, O young man, in your youth, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes. But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.

Remove vexation from your heart, and put away pain from your body, for youth and the dawn of life are vanity.

The charge here is to enjoy beautiful things, remembering that they are vanity, like the breath of the wind. They will pass away. The path seems to be to see things as they are, and enjoy them.

Perhaps then, we should make an addendum to our list of ways which we can combat our blindness. Perhaps it is not a dichotomy between Sin and spiritual disability. Perhaps there is a third option: receive Grace. Paul Simon has a wonderful song about this. Each verse is a different story. The world says to the boy, later to the man: We have what you want. What you seek, we can give you. That for which you thirst, only we can provide. However, each story is tied together with the chorus:

Oh, my mama loves, she loves me

She get down on her knees and hug me

Like she loves me like a rock

She rocks me like the rock of ages

And loves me.

Through love, the man is able to see the temptations of the world with clarity. Tempting yes, but the true grace? The true water for which he thirsts? They are not, and he knows this all because he has seen what true Grace looks like.

Unfortunately, even after having said all that has been said, after having learned of the character of ourselves and our Sin, we are not cured of our blindness. But, let us remember that the seed falls and dies, and it bears much fruit. That is, let us remember that where Grace abounds, Sin will also be present. Thus, we can see that the necessity of abounding Sin in the process of Grace is that Sin may be shown to be Sin, that our eyes may be opened, that, together, our sight may be restored.