Do You Love Me?

Anonymous Contributor, Logos

I

I say to myself: the evidence of my thought is in my heart. But how, then, can I believe it? It is written: “More tortuous than anything is the human heart, beyond remedy; who can understand it?” Oh blank wisdom! Oh fair deceit is this beating! It here does beat for the wholesome and the empty alike. What, then, prevents destruction? That, though all these alike the heart has loved, yet all in their turn have spurned the heart in diverse ways. It is written, “I, the Lord, explore the mind and test the heart, giving to all according to their ways, according to the fruit of their deeds.” So has Thy Grace saved me, in its just punishments, in the honesty of my sufferings.

So, then, do I rejoice over the fault in whose suffering I have learned? Surely not, except in the glory of mercy. For what dark had it been, what shame in my acquisitions and my own enslavement! It is in joy and sorrow that the Saint writes, “Late have I loved You, Oh beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved You.” 

What I do rejoice in is the astonishing freedom of the Lord. For who but the Lord can hear and be heard? Who but the Lord can speak and thus find me speaking to him? Who but the Lord can make of nothing with his Word? 

“Heal me, Lord, that I may be healed; save me, that I may be saved, for you are my praise.”

“I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”

II

What can I say of Thee except that Thou art the need of my heart? No, not even this. Not even this is sufficient. From my birth I looked, and plucked, and held fast, and was hungry of all things. And still now am I needful of all things, and lunge ever after them. Yet, in my own time, Thou hast come to me and said unto me that I am Thine. And so, in reaching after and holding fast unto me, Thou gave to me my own name: Thine. In this there is a hint at Thy nature. Thou art First and truly Maker. 

So, in hearing You, I stole unto You, and came like a thief heaped already in ill-got wealth and there demanding still more treasures. Seeing me so, Thou put in my heart Thine own Way, which was now no less than the knowledge of myself. Being little mindful of the losses it exacted, because so taken with new greed for Thy first Heart, I waddled alone in unsound haste. I mimicked Thy voice in my mind and followed my imaginings instead of Thy Word. I thought to win you with tricks of virtue and extravagant works. Oh Heart of my Beloved, did I not know then that Thy fire already enclosed me? Did I not know then that in stirring I needed only to be still? Did I not know then that Thou had made plain the Kingdom to the little ones, and that it is those same little ones who are given leave to sleep? 

At the end of each road You woke in a rocking boat and asked: “Have you still no faith?” 

What can I say of Thou Beloved except that Thou wert the first to love. What can I say except that Thou wert the shape of my heart. I sought to steal all things from Thee. In return Thou called me to a turning, that I might see how Thou had already given me Thyself. And in seeing this, already I knew that I had needed nothing less. 

Oh Glory, Oh Heart that alone is enough and yet ever is too much. Truly hast Thou loved me. Truly have we hoped in darkness—for who ever could have hoped thus?

At the end of each road You rested on a shore and asked: “Do you love me?”