When the Man Comes Around

Written in blue ink: 9/3/18

Revised: 9/23/18

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I’ve had the tale of Revelations, and Johnny Cash’s song, in my mind lately. Cash says it like this:

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Whoever is unjust – let him be unjust still,

Whoever is righteous – let him be righteous still,

Whoever is filthy – let him be filthy still,

Listen to the words long written down,

When the Man comes around,

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I hear sometimes about the absurdity of believing there’s a God. And some say that maybe there’s God and maybe there isn’t – but better to live like there is. And I hear people making a god of the scientific method and well-reviewed theories and tenured ideas. And tonight I reckoned that I’d like to be a writer for the Post one day, but I don’t feel like I have much to write. But I reckon I’ll go on writing anyway. And I have a lot of questions about Christianity and the things I’ve always held as true. But, regardless, I think I’ll just go on believing, having faith. They’re always changing minds about what the world needs: sometimes it needs Christians, sometimes we’re the idiots. So I reckon we ought to just go on believing whatever the case may be.

There’s a line from the Greeks that goes,

“I would rather labor on earth in service to another,

to a man who is landless, with little to live on,

than be king over all the dead.”

And I think Homer’s right. Perhaps it’s better to be a savage praying to a beetle and hoping for a miracle than a nihilist. Paul said that if we’re wrong about Christ rising from the dead, then we’re of all men most miserable. And I’ve never been able to come to grips with that. Isn’t it better to have hoped than to have believed in nothing, bowed down to chaos, and inaugurated the underworld?

Anyway, I think I’ll go on writing, though I’ve not much to say. And go on believing, even if I sometimes doubt. And I’ll go on hoping – what are we without hope? The one truly without hope, the nihilist who embraces despair, lives only in the darkness of the hallway, only in the dampness of the cave. He doesn’t know what it feels like to see a corner up ahead and wonder what’s around it, or why he’s walking towards a warm, bright pinhole of light. And I think I’ll go on loving, even though my love goes wrong. For after all of all have rotted away, been exposed, and cut down, love will remain. I suppose the only thing then will be to find out who it was that allowed us the pleasure, built the hallway, and poked the hole.

And I hear them – making love to the void,

But I suppose I’ll go on,

For the kings of the dead will be made low,

When the Man comes around,

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