Christians Are Like Drunken Idiots

A drunk driver drove off the road and landed in a ditch about ten feet from my neighbors house last night.  Several minutes after the wreck his vehicle erupted in flames and our hero barely made it out before getting any serious burns . . . All of this excitement took place a couple of minutes before I arrived home.  As I got out of my car, I couldn’t help but notice the enormous flames lighting up the night sky from the church parking-lot (we live in the parsonage).  Upon closer inspection, it became clear that this was not a bonfire.  I immediately called 911 and alerted the local fire department who had, thankfully, already been dispatched.  Within five minutes the volunteer fire department, an ambulance, and a couple of sheriffs pulled up and began to contain the fire and assess the drivers wounds.

As I stood watching all of this I suddenly noticed a group of guys across the street filming the event with their iPhones.  Out of curiosity, I wandered over to their side of the road and struck up a conversation.  Before long, I realized the entire group was drunk out of their minds.  The gentleman recording the event was especially hammered.  I asked him if he had witnessed the accident?  In his, rather comical, state of inebriation, he was elated to recount the nights events with excitement and gusto.  His concluding remark (which he shouted while standing next to his truck) was perhaps the best part of his vivid account: “Annnnnd dis is why you sh-should NEVER EVER . . . DRINK and DRIVE!”

It took everything in me not to burst out laughing.  The expression on my face must have given this fact away because a minute after this exclamation he looked at me and said, “Well . . . I-I mean, I’ve been drinken tonight . . . but I’m on f—n eight acres of land . . . ya know?”

I think Christians are often a lot like my drunk iPhone videographer friend.  We stand on the side lines, guilty of all manor of sin, and chastise others for their mistakes.  This is why so many people think Christianity is a joke.  This is why they don’t take anything we say seriously . . . we seem just as absurd and hypocritical as a drunken fool lecturing on and on about not drinking and driving; or like someone with a plank in their eye trying to remove the speck from their neighbors.

Jesus teaches that we should be careful not to judge — i.e. look down in condescension upon — others.  He says:

“Judge not, that you be not judged.  For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get”  (Matt. 7:1-2).  

Ironically, Christians are some of the most judgmental people on the planet.  We rail on and on about traditional marriage and sexual ethics and yet, statistically, there is no difference in our rate of divorce or in the number of men and women watching pornography or having affairs, than with the rest of society.  The pastor of a mega church teaches that homosexuality is an abomination and is caught paying for gay prostitutes at a seedy hotel.  Another pastor preaches passionately about good stewardship while absconding with church funds.  One could go on and on explicating example after example . . .

The problem is, in our fervent desire to proclaim God’s law, we have forgotten one of Christ’s most profound teachings:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.  Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” (Matt. 5:3-7).

Humility should be the default attitude of the true follower of Christ.  For it is only when we are “poor in spirit” and when we “mourn” and when we are “meek” that we can recognize our own failures and limitations as a fallen human beings.  It is only then that we are able to understand that we, like everyone, are in desperate need of a savior.  It is only when we look at the other drunk drivers with pity and brokenness of heart that we are able to obtain mercy and forgiveness for our sins.

When we look upon others with pity and meekness of heart – when we recognize our own failures and our own finite nature – we are then and only then in a position to stop looking like drunken idiots and start looking like Christ.

Anguish, Despair and Comfort in the Incarnation . . .

There are times when I feel that life is too difficult to bear.  When death and darkness and pain and suffering and listlessness force themselves upon my soul.  I cry out to the Lord in utter desperation:  “Father, please!  Why is this happening?  Please save me, please have mercy . . . I can hardly bear it anymore.”  I wait for a response but I hear nothing.  Am I alone?  Days and nights blur together as each week presents another challenge, another tragedy, another heartbreak . . . “O God!”, I cry, “I’m so afraid!”  I turn to the Psalmist for comfort only to find despair:

“O Lord God of my salvation, I cry day and night before You.  Let my prayer come before You; incline Your ear to my supplication, O Lord.  For my soul is filled with sorrows, and my soul draws near to Hades; I am counted among those who go down  into the pit; I am like a helpless man, free among the dead, like slain men thrown down and sleeping in a grave, whom You remember no more . . . Why, O Lord, do You reject my soul, and turn away Your face from me?”

It feels as if my heart is in constant anguish.  I weep bitterly as the people I love suffer.  I look on as my beloved wrestles with deep wounds from her past and unending physical maladies.  I feel helpless.  I feel lost and out of control.  I feel unable to provide.  Why must life be this way?  Why are there so many sorrows?  Why is there so much pain? O God do you hear me?  Do You understand me?  . . .

I stare at the icon of the Theotokos holding her child.  There is sadness in her eyes as she clings tightly to the boy of promise – the One born of the Holy Spirit.  I remember that the first Christian, my spiritual mother, the one who gave birth to God in the flesh, struggled and suffered.  My eyes fixate on the little boy in her arms, so small and fragile . . . I remember that his mother could find no place to sleep, no rest, and no safety on the night of his birth.  I remember how she was forced to have her baby in a stable surrounded by animals, hay, and the fresh cent of manure.  I recall her fleeing to Egypt to rescue her son from the hands of a mass murderer.  I remember how He experienced the limitations, temptations, and futility of human existence growing up in a small town in the desert.  Everything flashes forward.  I remember Jesus languishing in the garden . . . the blood dripping, the agony, and the resolve.  I remember the guards lashing out at Him; tearing open his flesh.  I remember the crown of thorns and the intense mockery.  I remember how He carried the cross and was nailed upon it; how He died.  I envision Mary weeping at His feet . . .

Then in the midst of the storm I hear the still soft voice, “I love you Josh . . .”

The Woman Trapped in a Man’s Body . . .

He was in his fifties, he had a hefty stomach and a gruff voice . . . he wore a dress, a wig, and red lipstick.  If anyone gave him a funny look, or, at least, if he perceived that someone was giving him a funny look, he would gladly give them a piece of his mind.  I’ll never forget Fred [1].

In spite of his facial hair, and very masculine features, Fred strutted around like a Los Vegas showgirl–he was very proud of his body.  A little too proud.  He fluttered his eyes at men he found attractive, he put his hand over his mouth, cocked his head to the side, and made a nervous giggle when he got embarrassed.  Every movement he made was deliberately feminine; in fact, overly feminine.  Yet, he was  not at all what one might call graceful.  To tell the truth, he was a bit ham-handed and extremely scatterbrained.

The first morning he came into the mission to eat breakfast he was very flustered and upset at something someone had said to him outside.  He became even more combative when the gentleman in the lobby explained that we would have to check his purse in (we didn’t allow anyone to take their belongings into the chapel for safety reasons).  Looking at the baggage attendant with an indignant and cynical face, Fred exclaimed, “I do not trust anyone with my purse!”  Naturally the two began to bicker, but before it got out of hand I called Fred over to my desk to have a little heart to heart.

Fred fluttered his eyes at me as I introduced myself to him and his cheeks turned a shade red–I do believe he was blushing.  After shaking his hand, I proceeded to explain the missions policies regarding taking personal items into the chapel.  Having reassured Fred that his belongings would be well looked after he eventually agreed to turn in his purse.

When chapel was finished, and the crowd was moving into the dinning hall, Fred did not look happy–in fact, he looked absolutely livid.  In a fit of rage, he stormed over to my desk.  As you might have already guessed, Fred was upset about something the preacher had said in his sermon (to be honest, I can’t remember what it was that offended him).  Before I could say a word he launched into an all out assault on Christianity.  To my surprise he was quite knowledgeable of modern Biblical criticism and laid out one argument after another against the veracity of the Bible.  My first instinct was to respond to his criticism–to engage him in a rational dialogue.  I quickly realized, however, that this was quite impossible; namely because I could hardly get a word in.  Fred was so worked up that he barely stopped to take one breath during the entire course of his diatribe!  This went on for about five minutes or so until he finally calmed down and decided to go into the dinning hall for breakfast.

After breakfast Fred approached me, with a grave look of concern on his face, and asked if we could speak in private about a rather delicate matter.  I took him to the side, feeling a bit nervous about the nature of our conversation.  He looked at me rather awkwardly (which only made me more nervous) and then proceeded to explain that it was not a good idea for him to use the men’s restroom . . . because he still had his “male parts.”  Suffice it to say, I agreed to stand guard in front of the ladies room while he did his business, to ensure both his safety and privacy.

It was during our conversation in front of the ladies restroom, as we waited for it to clear out, that I learned more details about the tragic life of Fred.  As it turned out, he was once an Episcopal priest, with a wife and several children–this explained his knowledge of Biblical criticism and Christianity in general.  Things took a turn for the worse when Fred announced he was a woman trapped inside of a man’s body and decided to leave his wife in order to begin the process of transforming himself into a woman.  Due to the brevity of our conversation, and to his tendency to get lost down incomprehensible rabbit trails, many of the details of his journey were obscured.  What I can tell you is that he was eventually removed from his position as priest, lost his family, lost many close friends, turned to alcohol to forget his many troubles, ended up homeless, and was now eating breakfast at our mission.

For the first time that morning Fred seemed to let his guard down while sharing his journey with me–his posture was no longer “defensive” or aggressive and the tone of his voice had softened.  When he had finished speaking we stood there in silence.  For the first time that morning I no longer viewed Fred as a nuisance or as an aberration  but as someone made in God’s image; as a person with dignity and value; a person who was deeply troubled and who had suffered greatly.  It is so easy for us to focus our attention on the external and to lose sight of what lies underneath–to lose sight of the image of God which remains in all men in spite of our fallen condition.

Jesus never lost sight of this.  Jesus loved those society deemed unloveable; the sinners that no one else would go near; people like Fred.  This always bothered the religious leaders of his day.  There is an account in the Gospel of Luke in which a “woman of the city, a sinner [i.e. a prostitute]” enters the home of a Pharisee whom Jesus was dinning with.  It reads like this:

“One of the Pharisees asked him to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table.  And behold, a woman of the city, who was a sinner, when she learned that he was reclining at table in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster flask of ointment, and standing behind him at his feet, weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with the ointment.  Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner” (Luke 7:36-39).  

Note the initial reaction the Pharisee has when the harlot walks in and begins to weep at Jesus’ feet–is it perhaps the same reaction you had when you read my description of Fred?  “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner.”  Isn’t this the reaction we Christians typically have when confronted with someone like the woman in this story?  Revulsion, disgust, hatred–are these not the feelings often present in our hearts?  Yet, Jesus doesn’t flench, he doesn’t push her away, he looks on with compassion and perfect love.  Jesus sees the image of God, the beauty and value of the person.  He also sees the darkness in the Pharisee’s heart:

“And Jesus answering said to him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” And he answered, “Say it, Teacher.”  “A certain moneylender had two debtors. One owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they could not pay, he cancelled the debt of both. Now which of them will love him more?” Simon answered, “The one, I suppose, for whom he cancelled the larger debt.” And he said to him, “You have judged rightly.” Then turning toward the woman he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven—for she loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little.” And he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven” (Luke 7:40-48).   

I grew to love Fred, to care about him, to enjoy seeing him come in for breakfast each day, to value him–I still think about him and pray for him to this day.

[1] The names have been changed in the interest of privacy.

Christmas: The Ultimate Solution to the Existential Crisis

Alas, It Has Been A While

Hello my friends!  I realize it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on this site and for this I truly apologize.  My absence, however, has not been in vain.  I’ve been entirely engrossed in an essay which shall be published early next year as a part of a compilation entitled PRAYERS ON DIVINE LOVE.  I will post more about this exciting project in the very near future.  In the mean time, here are a couple of other projects I’ve been working on:

1. I’ve been writing articles for The Christian Watershed!  Here is a link to my series on transforming our culture from the “bottom up.”
2. While progress has been slow (due to the afore mentioned essay) I have continued to research and outline new chapters for my book How I Killed Nietzsche.  I started journaling my experience writing this piece here but have recently put this on hold.
3. I’m also working on an essay debunking Physicalism (the metaphysical doctrine that everything which exists is ultimately explainable in terms of the laws of physics – which constitute all that exists).  I will submit this essay to several academic journals for publication next year.
4. If you’ve not read my brief satire Purple Like Polka, you can still download it via Kindle Press on Amazon for only $0.99.

On top of all of this, I’m also planing to post several more stories about my dealings with the homeless on this site soon . . . whew!  If only I got paid for all of this!

One Old Lady and a Cabbage Patch Kid

In a culture which fosters individualism and materialism it becomes easy to ignore the pain, suffering, and misfortune of others. Most of us live blissfully unaware of the millions of desperate and lonely people living in poverty around us—people longing for love, purpose, and a better life. Most of us are almost entirely focused on our own needs and desires or constantly engulfed in some form of mind numbing entertainment. This egocentrism, whether mild or strong in its manifestation, is the natural outgrowth of the Western Culture in which we live.  It’s important for us to recognize this because everything we think, everything we feel, and everything we do is in some small way influenced by our unconscious absorption of our culture. This is true for the faithful Christian, the ardent Atheist, and everyone in between.

While there is much about our heritage which is noble and beautiful, like any culture, ours is ultimately the product of sinful, self-loving, self-absorbed, fallen human beings and is therefore prone to developing dysfunctional modes of thought and behavior. It just so happens that in the West, this looks like materialism and stark individualism. Those of us who have grown up within the framework and influence of the West, no matter how sensitive to the plight of others we may be, are tainted by these negative and overarching forms of thought.  Even the kindest, most well meaning, person will struggle to think outside of these cultural norms if he is not careful.

This is precisely the position I found myself in several years ago.  I was a nice person:  I treated most people with kindness, I often befriended social outcasts, and I cared (that is, I had an emotional response, something like intense empathy) for people who were in pain.  I was also very religious: I went to church, I prayed, I read my Bible; I truly desired to have a relationship with God.  Yet, in spite of all this, I ultimately lived (on a day to day basis) in my very own self-interested, self-absorbed, bubble.  I would read passages in the Bible like James 1:27 which states, “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world,” and nod my head in hearty approval . . . but that’s as far as it would go.  There were no works accompanying my faith.  I didn’t actually visit or care for orphans or widows in their affliction, I just thought it was a cool idea; and I was not keeping myself unstained from the world.  In fact, I was living very similar to the majority of people in my culture: self-obsessed and detached from reality.

I was completely wrapped up in my own little world—the Josh world—in which everything revolved around my goals, my desires, and my interests.  Overall, I lived completely unconcerned about the suffering of thousands of impoverished and homeless people living all around me.  I wasn’t totally unaware of their presence.  I was not like Siddhartha, completely sheltered from the realities of pain and suffering in the world.  It just wasn’t something I dwelt upon or did anything about.  The weak and suffering in society remained in my peripheral vision—slightly out of focus.  I never fixed my gaze upon them for any length of time.  That is, until the night I met the old lady with the baby doll . . .

At that time in my life I played the guitar in a local band which frequently performed in clubs in downtown Dallas.  Music was virtually all I thought about—much to the detriment of my marriage, my schooling, and my day job.  I viewed my music as a positive force in the world—I took great pride in crafting thought provoking lyrics which might encourage people to think about God.  In this sense, music was a ministry.  In another, more real, sense music was and idol.  It dominated every aspect of my life.  This was the state I found myself in after playing in one downtown club on a Friday night.

It was late, we had just finished our set, and I was standing outside of the club enjoying the cool nighttime breeze.  Suddenly I noticed something moving in my peripheral vision; someone was approaching me from out of the darkness of the ally which ran parallel to the club.  I turned to fix my gaze on this unwelcomed visitor only to discover that she was already standing uncomfortably by my side.

I stood in silence starring at the unusual figure standing before me.  She looked much older than she actually was—her skin wrinkled and worn from too much time in the sun.  She was small, fragile, and extremely skinny; you could see her bones through her skin.  Her clothing was tattered, grimy, and smelled of mildew.  The most distressing thing about her, however, was not her appearance or her smell; it was the small Cabbage Patch doll she gripped tightly against her chest.  There was something unsettling about seeing an adult in her condition clinging so tightly to a child’s toy.  I will forever remember that image.

To my great shame, my first reaction was one of disgust.  All I could think about was how uncomfortable and inconvenient her presence was.  Before I could say a word, however, she started begging me for money, “just six dollars,” she said, “all I need is six dollars so I can stay at the mission.”  As she begged, tears streamed down her weathered cheeks.  Before I could reply she began telling me about her beautiful baby daughter—the love of her life.  All the while she rocked back and forth, clutching the baby doll as If it were here only connection to reality.  Her eyes sparkled as she recounted her most cherished memories of her sweet little darling girl.

By this point the disgust I had felt when she first approached me began to fade away.  In spite of her startling appearance and quirky mannerisms, I began to feel something entirely different—compassion.  As she continued speaking about her daugher, however, something began to trouble me.  “Where was her daugher?” I asked myself, “Why was she holding a baby doll?  Afraid of what the answer might me, I finally built up the courage to ask her.  Her eyes glazed over and she starred off into the distance.  “She died . . . she was burned in the fire.”

These words pierced my heart.  It literally felt as if the entire world had come to an end.  My soul sunk into despair and agony: “Oh God, how could you have let this happen?” I thought.  With tears in my eyes I reached down and gave the empty shell of a woman who stood before me a huge hug.  She began to cry harder as I embraced her.  I held her hand, I prayed for her, I gave her the money she had requested, and she walked back into the darkness.  My life was forever changed.

The world which lay on the peripheral was now the only thing I could see.  When I closed my eyes I saw her face, her poor broken face, weeping over the loss of her child . . .

Through Dark Lands: A Young Man’s Encounter With Homelessness

In the past four years I’ve had the special privilege of working with homeless men, women, and children in different cities across the United States. Through the course of my ministry to the homeless I’ve experienced both tragedy and redemption. I’ve seen lives destroyed by sin and lives beautifully restored by Christ. I’ve both doubted and questioned my faith and drawn closer to God than ever before. I’ve had my own life threatened and seen other lives destroyed. Since I’m taking a break from writing my book, I thought it would be nice to share some of these experiences with you . . .

Let me forewarn you, however, that many (in fact most) of these stories are extremely disturbing and quite graphic. They involve drug use, prostitution, bad language, child abuse, mental illness, demon possession and a host of gross injustices. Although I will not be using any of the real names of people I’ve worked with or mention the places in which the events took place, I shall be very honest in my description of these events. In doing this I believe I’m following the example of the authors of the Bible who made it a point not to hold back any of the unpleasant details.

I will also seek to be honest about my own spiritual development during this time. I know that I have sinned and made bad choices during my dealings with the homeless. I do not wish to portray myself as a saint nor the homeless as wild savage heathen. In truth, there have been times in which the homeless have ministered to me more than I’ve ministered to them. My desire is to show how destructive sin can be and to demonstrate just how much we all need the Truth instantiated in the man Jesus Christ. I pray that these stories bless you and strengthen your resolve to stand against evil and injustice wherever you may be.

The Diary of a Despairing . . . I Mean, Aspiring Author: Part 4

So, I’ve reached a very interesting and exciting stage in the development of the book.  At this point in the story, the protagonist has started his ascent up the mountain to the cave of solitude overlooking mankind.  Just when he’s about to start climbing, however, he makes a quick stop in a small village at the foot of the mountain.  In this village he encounters the “Four Horsemen” who are proselytizing the common man – attempting to convert him to atheism.  After listening to the Horsemen’s diatribe for a couple of minutes the character is once again visited by the ghost of Nietzsche who immediately begins to ridicule the godless knights.  The Horsemen, of course, are the so called New Atheists: Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Sam Harris, and the late Christopher Hitchens.  I can scarcely think of a better way to critique the New Atheists than pitting one of the most famous (and arguably well known) atheists in modern history against them . . . but, all of this will have to wait for now.

While I’m obviously anxious to get started writing this portion of the book, in the coming months I’ll have to step back and take a short break.  Please don’t get depressed—it’s for a good cause!  I’m excited to announce that I will be publishing an essay on the topic of divine love and the nature of existence through a small publishing house which goes by the name of Shadowfire Books.  The essay will be written in the form of a prayer and is part of a collaborative effort featuring several other new authors.  Thus, for the next couple of months all of my attention will be directed towards this essay—which I must have turned in by October 31^st.  I’ll release more information about this project as time gets closer for its release.  Until then, you can expect to see more of my articles published on the Christian Watershed and the occasional post on this blog.

The Diary of a Despairing . . . I Mean, Aspiring Author: Part 3

I recently started writing my first book entitled: How I Killed Nietzsche and Became the New Übermensch.  These are the chronicles of my journey through this intense project . . .

Part 3: The most difficult aspect of creating this story has been weaving Nietzsche’s own writing into the dialogue.  Although the book is a work of fiction–a unique blending of horror, fantasy, and memoir to be exact–it is far more than an entertaining story.  At the core of this troubling tale are some of the deepest philosophical and theological challenges of our time.  In order to capture these issues with precision and authenticity I’m utilizing word for word quotations from Nietzsche’s writings.  Thus, about ninety percent of the dialogue you read in this book will be Nietzsche’s actual words.  The reason I’m weaving his philosophical discourse into a fictional story is because I believe these issues run deeper than the intellect.  On the contrary, I believe they involve the entire person.  Nietzsche spoke of this in his notes, and I find myself in full agreement with him.  He states: “I speak only of things I experienced and do not offer only events in the head.  One must want to experience the great problems with one’s body and one’s soul.  I have at all times written my writings with my whole heart and soul:  I do not know what purely intellectual problems are.”  The intellectual wrestlings of my generation are far more than ideas in the head; but matters of the heart and soul.  In this book I hope to capture the intensity and seriousness of these issues without sacrificing the subtly of philosophical discourse.

There is, however, another motivation behind this work of philosophical fiction.  It is an unfortunate fact that many in my generation no longer think or reason through their beliefs but, rather, mindlessly absorb them through the media.  I call this phenomenon  intellectual osmosis.  It is largely due to slothfulness and impatience but also a symptom of our ever increasing addiction to irrational entertainment which preys upon our lower animal appetites.  As a result, young people are rarely interested in reading a work of non-fiction which forces them to think with subtly and precision.  It’s just not exciting enough.  With this work I hope to capture the readers imagination, thus lulling him into a false sense of security, whilst secretly engaging him in philosophical discourse.  It is my hope that once you start reading you will not want to stop, no matter how difficult the dialogue gets.  After all, a good book should occasionally cause minor fatigue to the brain.

Random Musings: Erotic Love

1) Where does erotic love stand in relation to human existence?

2) Perhaps erotic love is the very end of man’s existence – his final goal, his purpose.  If God is dead, then it must be conceded that reproduction is the subconscious irrational driving force behind every decision we make.  Erotic love, under this worldview, becomes the primary tool utilized by evolution (please pardon my use of teleological language) in the preservation and further development of a species; it, thus, becomes the very meaning of our existence . . .

3) If, however, erotic love is the end of our existence then human beings are nothing but sexual objects.  This is precisely what we see in Western culture today – sexuality has been reduced to a mere biological process, a mere physical happening, and, in consequence, looks no different than the buying and selling of Cod at the fish market.  People have become products to be consumed.  Women lust after Magic Mike without a care in the world for his soul, his wellbeing, his happiness.  Men satiate their sexual appetites through internet porn without a care in the world for the sexual health or individual worth of the actors (or in most cases victims of human trafficking) on their computer screen.  We justify this behavior with the soothing notion that human beings are passive agents helplessly blown and tossed by a sea of physical laws and biological determination.  Our hands, we say, are simply tied behind our backs.

4) Sexuality becomes something mechanical and base – something devoid of true love and intimacy, something impersonal and selfish – when we live as if erotic love is the end of humanity.

5) What if we made Truth, Beauty, Goodness, Justice, and Love Himself the end of our existence?  What if we made living up to the image and likeness of the One who brought us into being our purpose?  What if we lived as if other human beings were of great value and importance?  What if we embraced erotic love as an act of self-giving instead of an act of narcissistic self-love?  What if we defined erotic love as two individuals giving of themselves to each other and becoming one flesh; as the intimate sharing of pleasure between two souls bent on each others happiness?  What if we understood that erotic love is a life giving process – the first step in the bringing into being of a new and uniquely special individual?