This is the second story of “Two love stories”. You can find the first one here.
This winter has been kind of predictable in terms of reading. I have followed a trail hand-held by different men who have taken me down a well-trodden path. I started a leisurely walk with Father Brown, who solved “cosy” crimes while sentencing things like “he had ambitions and called them ideals”. After this hors d'oeuvre, I swapped G. K. Chesterton for C.S. Lewis and his “The Great Divorce”, some solid entrées into what I had prepared next in the menu. I read through his vision of how people condemn themselves, how one must actively choose hell, with its door that is apparently locked from the inside1. I read with a fair share of scepticism at the caricatures of people he presents in the text— are people really this stupid? But then I stopped myself because they are. Some, not many, are plenty stupid.
I reach the main course, a big platter of Inferno, served by the eternal Dante, who, guided by his favourite poet, Virgil, meets people of all sorts that have ended down here. If Lewis’ hell was mostly empty, Dante’s vision is an underworld full to the brim, positively packed, jammed and loaded with disgraced souls. As I descend through hell following these two unlikely travel companions, I read on, half bored, half indignant at the callous name-dropping of all the people Dante deems fit for hell. This begs the question- who is this guy to condemn political enemies, popes, warriors and lovers? Why would Attila not have a go at redemption? I mean, considering the historical context, the geopolitics of it all and that the story of Attila was largely written by the Romans, who had plenty of reasons to hate him but were not themselves short of hands in handing out beatings like hotcakes, was he really beyond forgiveness?
“Don’t hope you’ll ever see the skies again” (canto iii)
Yes, Dante’s hell is full, so much so that I cannot help but wonder that the price of entry into Heaven must be so high it must be almost empty. I also cannot help but wonder about my own fate. Have I locked myself out of heaven?
Raised Catholic, divorced and remarried. The Gospel according to Mathew 19:92 torments me sometimes.
I have talked about this with my sister, who is also my confessor. I don’t bring up the subject much, maybe once a year, and she always comes back with— “I don’t think you will go to hell, you are a pretty good person.” However, and although she is the high priestess of common sense, the 12-year-old that dwells within me needs corroboration from the source3. In her last attempt at consolation, she said, “Well, truth be told, that is what they said He said!” This made me laugh, remembering a meme I had seen not so long ago. It also reminded me of a conversation I had with P after he had a run-through of the 10 commandments at Sunday school:
“You could confess, and that would be that, Mum!”
“I think that to confess, one needs to repent, P.”
For good measure and a dose of feminism, I also explained that I think Jesus said that to protect women from being left by their husbands when they reached the middle-age crisis and decided to abandon ship and get a younger wife, since women back then were not economically independent. But here I might be hitting the protestant slippery slope of interpreting things how they very well suit my own narrative. I could stomach hell; Protestantism? Never.
I was also very impressed by his Sunday school teacher when he prompted her with the conundrum and she just responded: “but that is not one of the important sins, just make sure you don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
This reminds me again of the aforementioned meme. We can’t even get that commandment right in my house.
“New wounds! Old scars!” (canto xvi)
I remember one Easter when I was still at university; there was an organised Holy Thursday vigil in the little church in my village. For those of you who are not familiar with it, Holy Thursday commemorates the day of the Last Supper but also the day that Jesus was imprisoned and tortured before he was crucified. In those hours of tremendous agony, when everyone had abandoned him, even Peter had denied him three times, we took turns to pray and accompany Christ. During that vigil, some texts were distributed to help us pray. I remember that one of the texts followed a kind of dialogue in which God asked questions that one answered in silence. One of the questions was - And you? What’s the story with you? What's worrying you? And I remember that when I read it, I started to cry, that silent cry of someone who knows they are loved and knows that they will never be able to return that love with the same intensity. The cry of certainty that no human being with the capacity to invent such a God exists. A God who became man to get us out of the hole we got ourselves into, and who, on top of knowing He is doomed, in the darkest depths of his loneliness, is asking you — “And you, what are you worried about?” — and carry that weight too.
I have never felt more understood than when kneeling before the tabernacle. Taking communion gave me that comfort that those of us who understand that man does not live by bread alone can experience when feeling so loved by a God who becomes man in each Eucharist. That is the closest thing to making us divine we can ever experience. Imagine my frustration at wanting to join a club that doesn't want me. One may say — “they haven’t thrown you out of the Church”, and I will reply— “fools, going to the banquet and not eating is worse than not going at all.”
But I seldom think about these things, only when I read certain books. I am sure my sister appreciates that I don’t hammer her too much with the subject, looking for answers no one can give me. It's just that from time to time, I pray to a God who asks me:
“And you, what's the story with you?”
“Well, since You ask, I'm kind of annoyed that You can't forgive me because I won't repent. But just so You know, in my own small way, I love You, and I miss You.”
“Now we came out, and once more saw the stars.” (canto xxxiv)
I think reading a spy novel next is of the highest order. Where's my copy of "The Mask of Dimitrios"?
He did not say that in this book; I think he said it in “The Problem of Pain”, but “The Great Divorce” basically is just a long corroboration of that idea of his.
No worries, I got you. Mathew 19:9: “I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery.”
Some years back, when Pope Francis was a bit fitter and had the energy to tackle thorny issues, he made a vague attempt. He wrote a whole book that was said to be about this. I read it, it wasn’t. Not in any single paragraph did he mention that divorced people could receive sacraments like confession and Eucharist (if you are curious, it’s “amoris laetitia”). The Curia must not have read the book because they screamed blue murder— Let’s not tread on the grass if you please. One can be forgiven if a penitent banker, murderer, paedophile, but not if an unpenitent divorcee…
Two love stories.
For me, February is the cruellest month of the year. To combat the cold and the fact that the days are still short enough to kill any hope of spring, you have to add more wood to the fire and get a little…
I grew up in a non-denominational Christian church, attended their high school, the whole bit. I also grew up with my father owning a restaurant next to the town's Catholic church. It was never outright stated but there was a palpable belief that our church held the real knowledge, a few rungs higher on the stairway to heaven (does your husband dance to that one, haha). My view began to change many years ago after hearing an unassuming man pose a poignant question. Suppose you were to ask the biggest religious leaders of the time what percent of their beliefs concerning God they believe are completely accurate. What might their answer be? If ever posed that question, I would slowly begin taking steps backward and look for a getaway knowing it was a trap. But what would they answer? I believe many of their numbers would be much too high.
When I read your prayer of annoyance to God, it made me tear up. Many prayers, and I have heard my share, boast of God's majesty and glory, all while the one praying is subtly (or overtly) the one boasting. But yours is a prayer of honesty and I believe repenting man’s way vs God’s way may be different. Remember, Christ physically healed the sick by forgiving their sins. Christ died for the sinner, not the saint. He came for the sick, not the healthy. And as Paul stated, he did all of this ”while we were yet sinners”, knowing that we will continue to sin.
The next time someone questions your heathenness concerning your “adultery” (and that someone could be you) direct them to Matthew 5:27-28. We are all in need of grace!