simple revolution.

This morning we visited Magdalen College, climbed the tower, poked around, etc. We then wandered onto Addison walk, a pretty sort of footpath that winds through trees and around wetlands and feels very much like an old country lane. A poem by C.S. Lewis is engraved on a plaque that hangs partway around the walk, apparently as a tribute to his conversion to theism which took place one night on that path. I thought it was beautiful, and so I would like to share it:

I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear:

This year the summer will come true. This year. This year.

Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees
This year nor want of rain destroy the peas.

This year time’s nature will no more defeat you.
Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you.

This time they will not lead you round and back
To Autumn, one year older, by the well worn track.

This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell,
We shall escape the circle and undo the spell.

Often deceived, yet open once again your heart,
Quick, quick, quick, quick! – the gates are drawn apart.
-C.S. Lewis

About half an hour ago, walking down Brasenose ave, I passed a man asking for change. He was sitting with his back against the wall, holding a tattered paperback. I passed within two feet of him, heard him gently ask for a few pence. I passed within two feet of him, heard his voice, noticed his presence, and ignored it. I averted my eyes and walked by.

A few yards further, it occured to me that I had passed a human being. I felt a slight twinge of guilt. I honestly haven't a single pence, and if I had, I still wouldn't have given it to him. I want to make it clear that this is not an issue of giving money to beggars. It is an issue of giving love to people. My stomach turned over, but I kept walking and arguing to myself why it would have been pointless to stop. I knew it was a poor argument, I knew which side would win, and yet it was still nearly the end of the lane before I turned about and walked back.

I would so like to tell myself that I fixed the problem by turning around, but of course that is a blatant lie. It doesn't matter that I apologized for passing without even making eye contact, it doesn't matter that I sat down talked for a while afterwards, it doesn't matter at all because the problem is not that I passed a man sitting on a corner. The problem is that I didn't even recognize him as human. It never occurred to me, as I was passing him, to consider what it would feel like to be passed over as less important than the pavement.

Again, to clarify, this has nothing to do with people asking for money. This has nothing to do with the proper responses to begging, or the ethics of charity, or the causes of poverty. This is about something very deep inside me that is broken and ugly and gnarled. I like to ignore it. I like to pretend that nothing is broken, that this black mess does not exist. Every once in a while, though, someone forces me to recognize the dark scab of decay that is festering somewhere inside me, in a space that has rotted away with decay and anger and self-absorption and hatred. I think this space must be somewhere near my stomach, or perhaps my lungs, because the moment I am made aware of it, I suddenly feel as if I might vomit, and I struggle to gasp for air.

God, forgive me for my callousness, my selfishness. Forgive me for neglecting your creation and allowing it fall into such a state of decay. Thank you that your love for others is not dependant on my ability to show it, but that you love without restraint. Thank you that, though you need me not, you still desire and allow me to partake in your outpouring of love. Destroy me, and fill the absense of my own self with yours, that I might better learn to love and serve.

It's been a while. I feel as if I should apologize. It's not that God hasn't been working, or that I haven't been in awe of what He is doing- I merely haven't had time to write.

Lately my prayer life has been terrible. That happens, it comes and goes. Sometimes prayer is as natural as breathing, as blinking your eyes, or brushing the hair out of your eyes when it is windy. Sometimes prayer comes easily and constantly, and I find myself every moment reveling in the presence of my Lord. These are my favorite times.

Then, there are times like the present. These times I am not fond of. I wish they would go away and not come back. I wish I wasn't broken. I wish my mind worked properly and my heart was whole, because if my mind and heart were working I would never even be able to stop talking to God. If something wasn't broken somewhere in humanity, I think we would be a noisy bunch of people because we would always be babbling senselessly in awe of God's sovereignty, and He would always be laughing at us and trying to make us shut up so He could speak and teach us something. And when we heard His voice we would fall silent and listen. Golly, listen to me. Talk about babbling. Someday it will be like that, someday we won't be broken any more-- beautiful day.

I have come to the following conclusion. I want to talk to God. I'm desperate to pray. But something is disconnected so I can't come up with the words. I become frustrated because I don't know what to say to God. So I give up my attempt. With each failed attempt, the next attempt becomes a little shabbier, a little more pathetic.

Yesterday I stumbled across a wonderful quote by T.S. Eliot. I was becoming contented with a stagnant relationship with God, so He threw something into my path to trip me and jolt me back to my senses. "It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words." Alright, then. I'll keep struggling till my lungs open, or till my face turns blue from lack of air.