With Unveiled Faces

I have been trying to write for weeks now and my efforts have been at best frustrated, at worst not even begun. There is much to write about since there are always works I read that need kneading in my mind, and I do that best through writing. Though all applicable and worth processing, the issues these pieces touched were peripheral to the storm--albeit in a glass--within me. Ironically, the very book that I was reading purely for leisure and pleasure was the one to rip off the veil I hid behind. . . and it was no satin drapery, it more resembled bark or a second skin: rough, thick and knit to the tissues underneath.

The book was one I had read before called "Till We Have Faces" and written by the ever-clever CS Lewis. That should have been my first clue, for Mr. Lewis would never let any of his pieces without a depth that you felt almost drowned in. So it was that I read on and on, listening to Orual--from whose view the story is told--and for more than a moment believing her and the love she claimed for her sister Psyche.  Yet, as Orual finally was able to present her complaint to the gods, it all came back to me and pulled me under like a wild wave in the ocean. I stood like her, bareface before the mirror of truth and it revealed me as ugly as everyone thought her to be. That should have been enough to stand silent and ashamed, yet I stood complaining to the God of my life about the unfairness of my situation, pouting over the pains of my life. Still, I claimed love. At least, like Orual, the complaint gave me a face—however ugly—riding me of any pretense of selflessness, knowledge, love. . . and leaving me bankrupt without these.

Though I have written about this before and realized this before, this time it stood there not simply as a good thing I should pursue but as the lifesaver tossed me as I struggled in the sea--life or death hung in its hands.  This thing I speak of is love.  Having understood I lack good understanding and realizing I lack ability to love well buries any deed or thought I deemed good six feet deep. Problem is, I am not only drowning without it but find myself unable to swim near it. It is just like that phenomenon where people drown because they are frantically trying to save themselves. People always tell you not to panic in the water. The only thing that would make “not panicking”  a possibility for me somewhere in the depths of my mind would be expecting a rescuer.  So I try to stand still, tired of flailing my arms about me getting me nowhere. And I do not know how I can take a hold of this in the midst of the wild ocean of my broken humanity, but what I do know is that Christ has gotten a hold of it for me and, as he makes me able to follow him--to hate all things in comparison to Him--he also will teach me love truly.

I, like most arrogant students, do not want to be tested in this ability just yet, I want to first master it and perform well... I feel unready, unable, my love being like a child taking his first steps falling over and over again. However, it is an impossibility to learn love in theory.  As long as there is a God and there are people on this earth, all around me... love must be pursued. The scientific part of me wishes I could learn it theoretically: a lot of people would leave my life unscathed if that were true and I myself would escape some pain. But no, we live and we learn, especially as followers of God, to love him and to love others in vivo. 
In the mean time, until "all that is mortal is swallowed up by life," He holds my heart. 

This whole process has given me freedom instead of what I feared would be crushing and irreparable  shame. Taking the veil away is painful every time since it lets me see myself for who I really am (and who I see is not usually who I want to be), but only then I can better see God.  Paul spoke of something like this, though truly in the context of our first turning to God (you must read 2Cor. 3, yes the whole chapter)  but, does this turning ever stop? are we not to be constantly given over to the death of our very nature, ripping off our veils and turning to God?  I need to think more on this, but on to what Paul said:

But whenever someone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord. And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.

What is cool is that every time I stop trusting my own strength and ability (or self-righteousness, or spirituality--I think this can happen even as one of his children) and turn instead to GOD not only can I better see God, I reflect his glory. I reflect his glory! It will be a whole other post to explore this concept of glory, but lately I have learned to think of it as fame, renown. . . I guess my whole point here is that our revealed faces stop pointing at us (being now bare and un-mysterious) and they are finally undoubtedly pointed at God, for what else could make a such simple faces beautiful. . . cause change in us, and into godlikeness? into who we were meant to be?    In the next chapter of 2 Corinthians Paul goes on to say  that "We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves." I pray God continues in patience to show me true love, and that He  enables me to love like He does: extravagantly, purely, fully, recklessly.