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Good morning, digital neighbors! Happy Tuesday to all you fine souls milling about on Locals and Substack. I hope your week is off to a good start. How about one word from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, with a little commentary from yours truly.

VEMÖDALEN: the fear that originality is no longer possible

“You are unique. And you are surrounded by billions of other people, just as unique as you. Each of us is different, with some new angle on the world. So what does it mean if the lives we’re busy shaping by hand all end up looking the same?

We all spread out, looking around for scraps of frontier—trying to capture something special, something personal. But when you gather all our scattered snapshots side by side, the results are often uncanny. There’s the same close-up of an eye, the same raindrops on a window, the same selfie in the side-view mirror. The airplane wingtip, the pair of bare legs stretched out on a beach chair, the loopy rosette of milk in a latte. The same meals are photographed again and again. The same monuments pinched between fingers. The same waterfalls. Sunset after sunset.

It should be a comfort that we’re not so different, that our perspectives so neatly align. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that we live in the same world. Still, it makes you wonder. How many of your snapshots could easily be replaced by a thousand identical others? Is there any value left in taking yet another photo of the moon, or the Taj Mahal, or the Eiffel Tower? Is a photograph just a kind of souvenir to prove you’ve been someplace, like a prefabricated piece of furniture that you happened to have assembled yourself?

It’s alright if we tell the same jokes we’ve all heard before. It’s alright if we keep remaking the same movies. It’s alright if we keep saying the same phrases to each other as if they had never been said before. Even when you look back to the earliest known work of art in existence, you’ll find a handprint stenciled on the wall of a cave—not just one, but hundreds overlapping, each indistinguishable from the other.

To be sure, you and I and billions of others will leave our mark on this world we’ve inherited, just like the billions who came before us. But if, in the end, we find ourselves with nothing left to say, nothing new to add, idly tracing outlines left by others long ago—it’ll be as if we were never here at all.

This too is not an original thought. As the poet once said, “The powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.” What else is there to say? When you get your cue, you say your line.”

Swedish vemod, tender sadness, pensive melancholy + Vemdalen, the name of a Swedish town, which is the kind of thing that IKEA usually borrows to give names to their products. Pronounced “vey-moh-dah-len.”

Some might find that a rather melancholy exposition, but I have always found it bluntly refreshing. In one of my first history classes in college the professor began by asking how many of us knew our great-grandparents. Then he went further back in the genealogy. His point was that once you go back a few generations, 99 percent of us have no idea who our predecessors were. Almost all of us come and go from life leaving less than the wake of a boat or the steam you breathed onto a school-bus window as a child. I am entirely okay with that experience of life. Only the tiniest fraction leave a mark because of some extraordinary or notorious contribution. Even then there is still a good chance that one day, no matter what happens, you will be forgotten on earth.

I believe in a God who knows me better than I know myself. I know He remembers. I believe in a final destination at the end of my pilgrimage where I know and I am known—not only me, but anyone seeking the true, discerning the good, and longing for the beautiful. Those three currents of a meaningful life draw me ever closer to the source and summit I know as God. That knowledge, or that belief, makes me worry far less about whatever impact I have as I tend my small acre of reality. As Dr. Seuss says: “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

Peace,
your friendly digital neighborhood Padre

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Chapter 13 - The Proud Minister

XIII

The Proud Minister

One day there came into the Garden a man in torn clothes badly bruised and cut, who said to the Lover, “In the name of the Beloved I demand your help.”

So the Lover and the Disciple let him in and dressed his wounds and prepared the best of the vegetables from the Garden for him to eat.  When his wounds had been dressed and he had eaten and rested the Lover asked him how he had fallen into this plight, to which the man replied, “I was Minister of the Beloved in a city near this place, where I preached His gospel and expounded His doctrine to the people. I pointed out to them how their sins had made them wholly hateful to the Beloved and how therefore they were utterly beyond the range of His love and He would condemn them to eternal torments, whereon some fell into despair and wept bitterly but many were angry.  One day the magistrates called me before them and begged me to leave the city and preach elsewhere for they said I had made many people so angry and desperate that they feared there might be a riot and they might not be able to protect me but that I might suffer some injury.  I, however, very zealous for the Beloved and believing that the magistrates only feared that their own sins might be proclaimed, preached the more vehemently, denounced the magistrates and made it abundantly clear that the whole wicked city was foredoomed to eternal punishment by the just provision of the Beloved.  Whereon a mob, stirred up no doubt by the corrupt and venal magistrates, fell upon me with sticks and stones, nearly killing me and driving me out of the city in the state in which I came to you.”

“My friend,” said the Lover, “this was not a good deed of yours, for besides denying the unfathomable compassion of the Beloved, you have by your obstinacy caused these people to commit a grievous sin, and this cannot be pleasing to the Beloved, that through you who profess to be His minister the people should become worse.  Surely you remember that He Himself said, ‘If they persecute you in one city flee to another.’”

Therefore the man was very angry, and cursing the Lover, said, “I see that I have had a very false report of you and I do not believe that you are a servant of the Beloved at all.  When I came to you so injured for the Beloved’s sake you set before me only herbs and fruits although the garden is full of birds which you could have killed to make me a worthy meal.  I shall proclaim everywhere that you are no true servant of the Beloved but a mere falterer who dares not suffer in the cause of the Beloved.  Be sure that you are foreordained to eternal torments who suffer nothing here.”

For the man was so blinded by his own pride that he could not perceive the scars on the hands and feet and the brows of the Lover nor how the cloth beneath the armpits of his tunic was dyed with a red dye.  So he went out of the Garden cursing and shouting.

But the Lover looked sad and said, “A man like this does much harm to the cause of the Beloved, for by thus speaking falsely about the Beloved he may bring men to fear Him but none to love Him, and by love alone can any man approach the Beloved.”

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