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The Luce Letters 3: The Simple Immensity of Love You'll Never Get



Dear Luce:

I take a risk by communicating directly with, you, “the devil”. You wonder: “Can I gain the Deacon’s allegiance?”

No, Luce, I’m not that stupid. Granted, you are immensely more intelligent that me, you cannot read my thoughts, Luce. You work with the statistical odds and get humans to believe you are omniscient. You are not. You cannot “incarnate” into this realm though you would like us to believe this as though you are equal to the God-Man from Nazareth.

You feign the “victim” very well.  As “spirit” you do not know what bodily “feelings” really are. I, on the other hand, am both flesh and spirit.  You invented “scapegoat-ery,” giving reason, basis, and justification for your proffered illusion of self-misery.  Instead, you are like a black sunspot. You explode into electromagnetic havoc and chaos but “feel” nothing.

You convince miserable “underlings” to join your ranks so they might fall off the edge of the fake “flat-edge” world you paint. Quoting Shakespeare: “Why, you bestride the narrow waters, like a colossus.”

You want us to live in a world of “feelings” alone. You tempt us to live life by “feelings alone” confusing “the heart” as unintelligent and condemned to a hell of ups and downs -- a roller coaster experience upon which we are forced to choose ultimate allegiance to you.

You are the first narcissist trying to convince that the intellect also is without bearing; that our intellect, will and heart, when separated, are each left wanting and lost in a world of nothingness and darkness. This would be a world in which we must concede that while we “sense” life, we must simply be glad we “sense” and not worry about moralistic demands of external society. We cannot be dissected or segmented this way.

You are wrong about our species. Even when you infiltrate a body, you do not know the soul. You have no hands to grasp.  You have to use ours to do your bidding in the auction of life. You do not know that the ultimate torture you experience, is that there is always a part of your prisoner’s soul you will never know. You cannot possess what was not created for you in the first place.

But you claim you are in battle and have not been defeated. Battle? Against whom? Mere human beings? Not possible! Truth is you play us like chess pieces on a game board you think you invented. Well while you are playing chess with me, I am playing checkers. You might wipe me off the face of the board counting me disposable, cannon-fauter. But as I lie in a box, the God whom you say does not exist saves me from your ignominy-filled condemnation so that I am not your victim.

Rather, I am being saved for the moment of truth. The complex combinations of sensory, intellectual, and spiritual prowess living in my mind, and my heart, and my soul will be the point of the ultimate “checkmate.” Through my ascent, the kind hand of the God you deny raises me. He’s kind enough to ask me first though. God does not rape as you do. In His wake, I am confined no more.

The key? My ascent to virtue, beauty, truth, humility (referencing our roots in the created simplicity of earth, dust, mud, clay) and the omniscient incarnation of “love” which not even the angels “feel” as they are pure duty of will. They are what you freely chose to abandon. You think you can convince us to deny that our hearts have intellect, our minds of heart, and our spirit has both mind and heart.

You confuse our terrestrial simplicity with stupidity. You cannot possibly understand that God wanted to be one of US, rather than one of you. In the end, my Christmas and New Years could have been crappy from a “feelings alone” standpoint, but my heart has the mind to see true light and even humor enough to laugh at my foibles and myself. How’s them New Years Apples, Luce?

I might have an incurable illness, some disaster or tragedy might befall me. However, I willingly ascent to this crucible. I play your fool because the God-man from Nazareth blazed my trail. The confusion of life might present itself as a kaleidoscope of misery in this age of mathematically based existentialism, but my mind has the heart to stop and ponder the immensity of the landscape of friendship, and family that sparkle bright against the velvet darkness of a silent night. The North Star is brightest when all the lights on earth dim a bit and look upward. Feliz ano Nuevo, Luce, something you’ll never understand.

Your move Luce.

NYBFF dTom

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