Wicked Claw

Wax And Stones

Did I want to be a saint so I could be plaster or stone and untouchable? That must be part of it. It’s rarer and rarer to find those old stone saints in Catholic churches anymore, holed up in their grottoes, tranquil expressions on their glossy faces, feet lit with the red votive candles of the adoring. I think that is part of the impulse in every child who wants to grow up to be a saint. I know its in me, the idea that as I progress in holiness I’ll rise above it all. Not be touched by what other people are touched by, not be plagued by… being a human being.

But the church walls tell a different story. The stations of the Cross tell of a mother weeping for her son, of a deposition: a dead body peeled off of a cross and saints wailing, of a man spiked to wood, side opened. The icons tell of hearts on fire, hearts exposed, hearts pierced with seven swords. Heads, the seat of all reason, chopped off with swords, the bodies we glory in shot through with arrows. It becomes clear, if we let it be clear, that sanctity is all about exposing ourselves to the full risk of being alive. Not about stone virgins, but hearts of flesh.

It is much harder to be a flesh virgin than a stone one.

The truth is charity at a distance is easy, but love is dizzying. It is terrible to love someone else. I know that now. Now when I love someone I try to tear apart every word they say, try to make myself un-love them. It comes up again and again. I ask, going for visits, what do I fear? Why am I afraid? I am afraid of this love. All of my life I have been on guard and no one comes to far into my grotto. There is an army of burning votives at my feet to keep folks away. Kneel. Tell me your need. I will smile on you. Leave me to myself. But don’t cross the fire. Do not touch. Do not enter in. Do not turn me into flesh.

Flesh feels and yearns and weeps and, in the end, rots. Stone is strong and enduring.

But only flesh is alive.