I don’t want to be loved in spite of myself

I am besieged by condemnations. The worst part is,
They’re true. I flail around in my sin like Frodo in Shelob’s tunnel,
The cobwebs of my cowardice and cruelty snatching at my hair
And hands and mind. I’ve been asking this question since junior year:
Can I be free?
There’s a song that says you were born to free me,
And there are journal entries to prove I’ve been asking for far longer,
But every thought is a new disappointment, every reaction
Is a fresh betrayal, and every word that begs to be said 
Is a tongue twister trapping me in the truth of my lies. 
And can I be free?
If maturity is becoming more aware of my sin,
I should be a gold-star grandma or wisened saint, 
But all these revelations just make me clutch harder 
At the dollar store pearls I’m pretending are real. 
Please don’t take this away, my last defense: that I could be loved
Because of some penny of merit. Don’t love me
In spite of me, don’t hold back my hair as I vomit, 
Don’t point to your presence in the pit of my shame as the proof
Of your goodness. It’s my goodness I’m asking for.
And why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I want to be good? 
Resolute and remote as a wood thrush, you’re still singing. 
Can I be free?
O great feather duster, O Windex on the mirror of my fogged-up make-believe,
I keep coming back to this: It’s your fault anyway.
You’re the one who picked me off the trash heap. You’re the one
Who put eternity in my heart. So do the deed. You do it. 
Free me.
Smash me, but be gentle. Pry these play pearls away, but I wouldn’t mind
Receiving some real ones in the process too. 
Meet me at the courthouse and shatter me with mercy,
No matter how loudly I protest. Maybe this time I’ll finally meet the judge’s eyes
When you hand me the papers and say,
You’re free to go. 
You and your terrible love, your devastating goodness,
Meeting my merited charges punch for punch, pitching your body
In between me and my accuser every time. It makes me sick
And it’s making me new. 

This poem is just where I’m at, folks. I don’t think it needs much explanation, this tangled inner monologue/prayer, but if you want some slightly nerdier thoughts on love, read on.

In reality we all need at times, some of us at most times, that Charity from others which, being Love Himself in them, loves the unlovable. But this, though this is the sort of love we need, is not the sort we want. We want to be loved for our cleverness, beauty, generosity, fairness, usefulness. The first hint that anyone is offering the highest love of all is a terrible shock.

…

There is something in each of us that cannot be naturally loved. It is no one's fault if they do not so love it. … We can only be forgiven, and pitied, and loved in spite of it, with Charity; there is no other way.

- C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves

I read The Four Loves last year, and this part on the fourth kind of love, charity, the kind of love God gives us and which all our human loves aspire towards, lodged in my brain.

The first hint that anyone is offering the highest love of all is a terrible shock.

Oh dear, I thought, reading this and recognizing myself in it. It’s so true. If this is the kind of love God offers, I’m not entirely sure I want it. I want to be loved qua myself—for whatever potpourri of talents, interests, choices, traits, and other accidents (in the philosophical meaning) I am. I want to be loved in my particulars, not just because God loves his creations in general and I happen to fit that category (as does, well, everything but God, which doesn’t exactly make me feel special).

Worse, Lewis is going a step further—he’s not just saying God loves us as created beings but he loves us in spite of the fact that we are (because we are??) unlovable. Because there are actively negative things about each of us. Ugh!

It’s adjacent to a fascinating discussion Tara Isabella Burton is starting on her new susbstack about whether our love of other people is only ever a shadow of or pitstop on the way to the pure, ideal love of God. She resists the idea that “desire for someone obviates all the particularities that make them them, in favor of a passion for unmoved movers and parallel lines.” Surely our love of another person, while it points to the love of God and should lead us to deeper love of God, must also be good in itself, must be about the person in themselves. She wrestles with this and concludes with a good note about metaphor: “Metaphors are both something else and also themselves. Dancing is a metaphor for sex and also dancing is just plain dancing; personal love is a metaphor for divine love but it is also — has to be — itself; the Word, at least if you’re a Christian, is a person…”

But it’s her initial question that I resonate with most, that echoes what I feel out in this poem. I want God to like me. I want God to like me. I don’t know if I want His charity. My first impulse is to say that’s why human love sometimes feels more special or meaningful than God’s, because people don’t like you in some divine, cosmic sense—because they can’t—but because they like you and your particulars.

And yet. My insistence on being loved for my particulars is a dangerous one because not all my particulars are good things. There are some nasty, ugly streaks in there that can be hidden, but only to a point.

If you have ever been deeply loved by someone, there are inevitably times when they love you in spite of those particulars. There are times when you are unlovable and they love you anyway. And in those moments I am so grateful to be loved in spite of myself.

The title of my poem is a bit tongue-in-cheek because at the end of the day, as much as my pride resists it, I do want to be loved in spite of myself. Of course I do.

And I think God both loves us in spite of ourselves and because of ourselves. His divine creator love means he delights in the details of his creations. My particulars, the good, the bad, and the ugly, are safe with Him. He loves us with all the loves—affection, friendship, eros, and charity.

References: There’s a song that says you were born to free me | Resolute and remote as a wood thrush | eternity in my heart

In Other Words…

Book Reviews 📚

A random assortment recently—I loved escaping into some fun YA, which I haven’t read in a while. I’ve completed two other books that I still need to review, so according to Goodreads I’m only one book behind in my challenge. I have no idea how grad school will upend my reading rhythms so we’ll see what happens, but I’m happy with how many books from my aspirational January list I’ve completed!

• The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater | 4 stars

• The Dream Thieves by Maggie Stiefvater | 4 stars

• Blue Lily, Lily Blue by Maggie Stiefvater | 3 stars

• The Biology Of Belief: Unleashing The Power Of Consciousness, Matter And Miracles by Bruce Lipton | 2.5 stars

• Richard III by William Shakespeare (reread) | 5 stars

Speaking of grad school, I leave for Vancouver two weeks from tomorrow, which is an exhilarating and terrifying thing to say! I have a poem related to that and longer thoughts about why and what I’m doing which I hope to share in the upcoming weeks, and I’m envisioning this substack as a place where I can keep people updated on my PNW/theology nerd adventures, so stay tuned for all of that. For all who prayed for me to get to this point—over my visa, over my arms, over wisdom and courage and peace—thank you so much. Please keep the prayers coming as I wade into the mire of last-minute logistics and painful goodbyes. So good and so hard, this life we live. And as always, if there are any particular prayer requests you have, my messages are always open.

to staying awake—

Aberdeen