I arrived in Trinidad about 12 hours ago with my friend, Jerry. Already I’ve been stuffed with good food three times. Furthermore, I’ve fallen asleep about three times as well. On the tele is Harry Potter & The Sorcerer’s Stone. I really enjoy the Harry Potter movies and especially the soundtracks. Just a minute ago I saw a scene that I completely forgot about. Lurking around the Hogwarts halls in his new invisibility cloak, Harry finds a room with a large mystical mirror. Rather than just showing a man’s reflection, this mirror reveals the viewer’s deepest desire within its frame. When Potter looks into it, he sees he and his family. When Ron looks into it, he sees himself as the Quidditch champion with crowds of people cheering him on. Harry sits in this room for hours, gazing into his fantasy. Dumbledore finds him and tells him what kind of mirror he has found.
“A man who looks into this mirror and sees nothing but his own reflection is a man who is completely content with his life”
I don’t know if a man like this could ever exist. I actually think that if a man did see nothing but himself, he’d be a lost, lonely and incomplete man. Who yearns for nothing greater than or at least complementary to his iniquitous self? I know that there is no perfect man. There are men in the process of perfection who would look into this mirror and see themselves standing before Jesus. And then there’s the God-man, Jesus, who I guess would see Himself? Maybe the face of God? I’m assuming he’s seen it and is capable of seeing it. The bible talks about some whimsical, ethereal things and not all are fully explained. I suppose there’s no telling where this redemption story will continue to go after death.
At this point I suppose I don’t care about the unknown as much as what I am capable of learning and acting on in my life here.
I can’t help but stand off and think what I would see if I looked into the mirror. I think I’d see myself with Jesus. I’m pretty confident in that. But it’s complicated because I know that my actions, more often than I can even know, reveal desires for everything but Jesus. So I suppose my question is: how much weight does the desire of a heart really have? I know I love Jesus in times when that love is manifested in acts of obedience and, well, love. But I also know I love him when I’m rebellious and vengeful. The latter occurs exponentially more than the former. How does such an invisible and fickle force as “what is in my heart of hearts,” take precedence over the actions that result from it’s yearning, even when its a depraved, misled, and temporary yearning?
