Reflection on Familial Dysfunction, the Love of God, and Dealing with Broken People

“I think I have the courage to doubt everything; I think I have the courage to fight everything. But I do not have the courage to know anything, nor to possess, to own anything. Most people complain that the world is so prosaic, that life isn’t like a romantic novel where opportunities are always so favourable. What I complain of is that life is not like a novel where there are hard-hearted fathers, and goblins and trolls to fight with, enchanted princesses to free. What are all such enemies taken together compared to the pallid, bloodless, glutinous nocturnal shapes with which I fight and to which I myself give life and being.”

— Søren Kierkegaard

Good afternoon, reader.

I’m sitting on college campus. The Mirror of Golgotha cover manuscript is glitched in some way, and I’m taking a break from dealing with it.

The book will be going out on Halloween—probably a blank-cover style situation, like one of those old leather-bound books.

I want to be careful with the specifics of this article to avoid scandal. But man, I’m really struggling.

A House of Opulence

As most of you know, my parents are middle class—Gen X bourgeois to the bone. I am everything my society hates.

Care for the poor, stands up for the truth, brutally honest, terrible at lying. Hates social norms and national identity.

My family, due to my grandparents pitching in, have gotten a spectacular house.

And I? Well, I live in an apartment because, as you guys know, my relationship with my family is complicated.

Somebody tell my mom to lay off the French-Revolution money. I’m serious.

This new house sits a few miles from low-income neighborhoods, and the contrast hits like a slap. On the drive over I was on the verge of tears. I keep telling Christ I’m trying to forgive, but this is… ridiculous.

Tonight I learned another scandalous fact about my mom and her new boyfriend—said it casually in front of my little brother. Then my little brother got chewed out for telling me, and my twin fired back with something awful about me. Secret-keeping, Versailles-style family drama spinning in a brand-new foyer. Meanwhile I’m just trying not to crash out from the weight of it.

This is why I wrote Carnivale of Salt and Wounds. Because opulence without honesty is a haunted house. Because the margins are right down the road while we install accent lighting.

Vanity

I’ve been reminded of the Book of Ecclesiastes constantly over the last few months.

It’s surprisingly medicinal for someone as neurotic as me. It keeps me sober, grounded. And it’s just a beautiful book.

I feel like I live in a castle where everyone is drinking wine, dancing, breaking God’s commandments—while I am told to follow them.

It’s a feeling almost irreplaceable. There’s a reason I’m so attached to poor and suffering people, even as a fat white guy from Texas.

I’m reminded of Solomon’s words: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

Or “Vanitas vanitatum,” as Vani says.

Vanity as Pride of Adornments

I’m honestly just okay with a shack. I’m usually tempted to pleasure, not wealth.

In my city the whole north half is entrenched in gang violence, drugs, and the like. Few walk from such a fate, but those who do are precious.

I have a few friends on campus that lived there. When I figured out my city’s corruption—and my family’s opulence, pride, and dysfunction—

Such sentiment birthed Carnivale.

For the Worker

Those aches under your fingernails are blessed. I’m soft, weak, and frail. Just know why you do it.

Keep fighting. Keep struggling. Marx is in Paris, but Kierkegaard is in an attic.

I don’t know how or why y’all put up with it. I’m aware of my own frailty and softness. But my heart is with the man without a gun in a world of militiamen.

So. I may not know the hood—I’m not going to be dishonest. But I do know what fighting for dignity feels like. And I do know the vanity of your oppressors.

Know you have one Advocate.

And know Christ walks among you.

Long Live the Good Fool

— Caleb W.H