Aren't all the manifestations of sin in the world manifold ways of saying, "It is absurd that there could be a God of infinite love Who would go to such lengths to save us from ourselves"? How could it be that I'm loved, especially when I don't feel it or notice it in any tangible way? Modern life is much more palpable, and can I really trust the promise of the mystics who say that the love they experience is so real that they would even suffer the worst torture rather than betray it? That promise seems so distant and ethereal.
I'm hoping for some vigorous surge of emotion to accompany this realization that God loves me, but there isn't any there. And why is it that the only way for me to embrace this love, to let it enter into my life fully, and to reciprocate it feels like a burden, an obligation dropped unfairly on me? It's simply easier to believe that there is no such thing as a God of infinite love; it's easier to give mere lip service ("I'm devout!"; "I'm a real Catholic!"); or rather it's easier to live as if God never existed at all.
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