One could devote oneself to divinity, or, keeping a proper distance from prejudices and pressures—assuming it is possible for someone to dodge prejudices and resist pressures—aspire to achieve some temporary and acceptable degree of awareness… acceptable for ourselves and for no one else, of course… that would allow us, for a while, to love without hating ourselves and to love ourselves without hating.
One could lightheartedly dedicate— and some do—the entire life to a single, small cause, our vocation, the mission that might be the very reason for having lived, subjectively chosen among all others, for objective reasons of proximity, since we were there, had time, felt like it, and no one else seemed more willing to do it than us.
This is how eternity is built: one single moment at a time, weighing options and creating favorable conditions, with trust and passion.
How can some people not expect that there is, if only for logical rigor, something absolute, infinite, and perfect to oppose, on the other hand, what is relative, temporary, imperfect?
Is it not surely true what we demonstrate through the negation of its opposite, like the fact that if it is not white, it is black?
Otherwise, all these resources we have, all these different options spoken of, if they truly exist, would seem really excessive compared to what is needed, to just live.
Too many resources for some, certainly, who still have only one life; or, conversely, too many lives for scarce, poorly balanced, poorly managed resources.
It was not always like this, naturally: there were better times, which did not last long and, if the purpose was ever only to live a few decades longer, even worse.
But what if we were really preparing for something more perfect and definitive, passing through a new, crucial evolutionary leap toward the fulfillment of our purpose, even if it were the grim epilogue of our species—and especially in that case—every small hope of having contributed, even a little, even unintentionally, unseen and unnoticed, would be exceedingly well placed.
Every life, then yes, even if brief or only marginally aware of itself and others, would be precious.
Isn’t this a good reason to aspire to divinity?
Living just to survive might really be too much, or too little, to dedicate to it the care and attention we are capable of, if we are capable, like when we realize for the first time that a moment of distraction can make us forget even to eat, that we can lose ourselves completely in what we do, say, dissecting a corpse or folding a sweater, in the daily routine of our thousand chores or in the eternal and unrepeatable moment of fulfilling our ultimate duty.
Is it normal to see limits in this configuration?
Is it right to be so frustrated knowing that it will not be possible for us to make the next leap, we who barely understand the basics on which the progress we enjoy is founded, we who allow others to say what we would have said and do what we would have done?
Surely, it will be for the next life, but meanwhile?
Is there really no time, no opportunity? Or, sick with inertia, would we not even recognize our realistic possibilities and, underestimating the skills we boast, prefer not to risk, fearing to do so at the expense of others or our own interest?
Is there anything worse than wasting a possibility, knowing we have it? Above all, do we really have it?
Let’s assume that possibility is the only one. Let’s assume that light is our virtue, our best quality; if you want, the humanity that Saint Paul called charity. Suppose that, instead of using it to the fullest, we wanted to preserve it.
Here then is another excellent reason to devote oneself to spirituality: illuminated by divine benevolence, we could indefinitely procrastinate, to avert the entirely theoretical but deeply felt possibility of wasting, living unworthily, our only life.
A God who embodied that will, who wanted us alive, approximately aware of being so, like a father who generates children, so to speak, what sense would it make for Him to want us to spare it?
On the other hand, preserving the desire to feel created by express will, would we feel more gratified knowing it was so that we could exhaust ourselves with entertainments, since that seems the best among available options?
Perhaps the enormous discomfort of some, particularly ill-suited to bear the pressure that can be exerted, on a sensitive soul, by the mere fact of having to exist, to learn to do it well, and above all, to have the opportunity to prove it, even if everyone tries to encourage them by minimizing the fact that it is pressure, well, it is truly justified.
Perhaps discrediting unavailable options, especially those unlikely and seemingly laughable, such as the fact that someone wanted to create the universe or that the earth is flat, is far from a good idea.
Perhaps, we have no options at all and invoke divinities only to exorcise the fear of our possible and fundamental uselessness, only to realize or convince ourselves, along the way, that it was not entirely so.
Even the proudest and least willing to concede must sometimes admit that we deserve more indulgence for having to move in the dark than what we recognize in each other on average days.
One day, we will be able to judge ourselves critically and autonomously but, until then, we exist, if we had to explain it to someone, only in that mutual recognition.
We are not, even if it is nice to believe it, because we think or doubt; we are not because we have or because we do, but only insofar as we are seen to be and to doubt, insofar as others know that we have and do.
We are good because useful, wise because listened to, rich because envied.
Life is not knowledge but recognition.
Alone in the world, lacking utility, spectators, and followers, would we not, again, have valid reasons to devote ourselves to divinity?
Ungrateful to everything, to anyone, would we not find shelter in unconditional and supreme love, even as we turn our backs?
Surely, it would be ironic if in the end it were God, assuming He exists, who loves us, wants us, and wants us happy, who finds concrete reasons to leave us, deluded and desperate, demanding and defeated, as lovers sometimes do, after having given us everything, in vain.