Non Est Hic Pt. II

I currently have one tattoo. It’s not that I haven’t wanted others (I have), but I have always been of the belief that if it is going to be a permanent feature of my body it should at least be meaningful. If, Lord willing, my nieces are one day going to ask me about what the ugly, wrinkly, discoloration on my arm is, I want to have a smart and meaningful retort. So, I got my first tattoo last year. It’s simple cursive writing and reads “non est hic.” Latin for “He is not here.” Much joking has taken place at my expense as I relate the translation to various friends (typical jokes include: “Where is he?” or while pointing to the other arm asking “Is he here?”). I endure the jokes and sometimes choose to relate the real reasons why I chose this tattoo and not another. And that reason is also why I chose this title for my blog, because all of us have non est hic-experiences, but we just don’t have the vocabulary to put it into words. 

If what I wrote in my last post is true of human nature, then there is within us a desire for something—immortality, love without parting, a sense of belonging-ness that runs deep within us. We medicate this inward longing and desire to keep at bay the knowledge of “the fall.” But it’s there, and the medication doesn’t heal, it anesthetizes for a moment only. But we always awake from the self-induced coma of our choice medication and the gnawing anxiety of “the fall” lingers still. In the last century, C.S. Lewis recognized this in-born desire for humanity and fashioned what is commonly called “the argument from desires.” 

     The argument is simple as Lewis describes it, "Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for these desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” 

Thus, if I find that I have the desire for immortality, love without parting, a sense of belonging-ness, but cannot find the complement for such a desire in this world, it’s because it’s not in this world. It may be a transcendent desire. 

So what does this mean for my tattoo? I have learned something about my heart recently: it’s voracious for love. I am a black hole for love. If I am shown love, I will gladly receive it, bask in it, exult in it…and then I will need more, demand more, require more. I require an infinite amount of love—a love that never parts. As I mentioned in my last post, no thing on earth can meet that need because anything that loves me in this world us finite, it falls apart. The complement towards the infinitely deep hole for love in my heart cannot be found here. Like pouring a cup of sand into the Grand Canyon with the hopes of filling it in is the enormity of the task of filling my heart with love from sex, relationships, alcohol, insert your own medication here…etc. 

I didn’t come to this realization until later in life and after many failed attempts at filling the abyss. To be honest, I still haven’t learned the lesson well. I still medicate; I still look for rest in those things subject to “the fall.” And, no surprise, I still fail in receiving their promises of joy. Yet, like an addict who thinks that one more experience will provide different results, I go back to them.

C.S. Lewis further informed me here. In his often cryptic spiritual autobiography, “The Pilgrims Regress,” Lewis writes about his struggle with sexual hedonism, philosophical speculation, and spiritual experience before his conversion to Christian faith. Lewis reflects that he knew that “joy” was out there (what Lewis calls “joy”, I call “love without parting”), and that dabbling in sex, exploring various philosophies, and mining the world’s religions were but experiments to discover “joy.” In every circumstance, the experiment in question failed to provide lasting “joy”—love without parting. With each successive failure at finding this elusive “joy” Lewis relates hearing the words “Qui Quereglum el Sepulchro, non est hic.” Translation: “Why do you search for the living among the dead, he is not here.”

When I read those word from Luke 24:5-6  in Lewis’ autobiography I was crushed. These words were written for those of us who find ourselves vulture-like searching for joy among the dead things of the world. We peck at the carcasses of those things subject to “the fall” looking for sustenance, but we find instead the discontentment of rottenness. Because the truth of the matter is, “non est hic” marks our lives, our experiences, our vision for the good life. “He is not here” in the wasteland of my preferred panacea. “He is not here” in the desert of my distorted desires. “He is not here.”