My own plan is as follows: for the next 40 days I’m going to fast from books and media (including social media) that corroborate my own prejudices. I’ll get my news from sources with a different set of biases. I will familiarize myself with the primary texts that inform the schools of thought that I’ve habitually neglected. And I intend to gerrymander my Facebook feed so that it shows me more posts from people who I respectfully disagree with, and I’m going to fast from disagreeing with them. My goal is to “read as a loser,” so that my eyes will be opened to the blind-spots in my own thinking and so that I can joyfully receive the truths that I have, up to now, been reluctant to consider.
Melinda Selmys: I'm Gonna Give Up Being Right For Lent
The sensation of despair comes simply from the fact that I don’t want to be chaste, don’t feel bad when I fuck around, and don’t see why I should do or want otherwise. I don’t love Christ enough to obey him for his own sake, and I don’t fear him enough (or trust him enough, maybe?) to obey him for my own sake. All I have is the bare, cold principle that this ought to be done. And I’ve found out that, at the cost that principle exacts from me, I can’t do it. Or won’t. The strength of sin is the law.
Being without a husband, being bereft of specifically erotic love, is agonizing to me. It isn’t just the depression: I’ve been on Zoloft long enough to know the difference. And I know the arguments about the sacramental meaning of sex like the back of my hand, but when you’re lonely any argument is a whole lot of bullshit, and no friendship can truly substitute for a lover—they’re just not the same thing, they don’t meet the same need, they don’t touch the same wound in the soul. I have yet to hear the Catholic doctrine of sex (which I accept categorically) articulated in a way that made that reality seem important enough to warrant the cost it imposes on me.
Gabriel Blanchard: Prayers for Judas
Beep beep. I am here to tell you that, sometime after that seventh time (or maybe after the seventy-times-seventh time) a light bulb will click on in that dopey son’s head. After being rescued without comment one more time after time after time after time, that son is very likely to decide on his own that this is no way to live, and he’d rather face the jeers and yucks of his stupid friends than the quiet patience of his father one more time.
Not because he’s scared of his father, but because he’s not. Not because his father is mad at him, but because his father loves him, and it finally feels like it’s time to live up to that love.
Simcha Fisher: The X Plan For Salvation