a far more traditional and predictable form of crazy
me:
This Catholicism business is all very nice, but boy does it feel like an intellectual game of stop-hitting-yourself...
The suddenly apparent Ghost of Chesterton, slightly tipsy and smelling of spectral ale:
When the jeering crowd at Golgotha called upon Christ to step down from the Cross he gladly took up, were they not daring Him to stop crucifying Himself? To quit that most holy, most fantastic, most absurd act of love and stop hitting Himself for the redemption of all mankind? The man who takes up his Cross and follows Him will end up at the place of the skull, but the man concerned with not hitting himself at all costs will only end up inside his own. This, then, is the chief peril of the tentative soul who toys with the idea of putting on Christ-- not that he will feel taunted to stop hitting himself, but precisely that he might not feel it *enough*.