Virtue

To fall is not a disgrace; it is really a state of grace, since it is the means by which virtue enters the world. From the heavenly angels, goodness flows, as effortlessly as water downstream; but goodness, in itself, is not virtue. For virtue to be, goodness must push its way upstream, must resist the prevailing currents of gravity. While intrinsic to our humanity, virtue does not come easily. It takes persistent effort to push it into the world. Torment is the inevitable price for its becoming. Unappealing as this may be, torment is not a negative, for its agony is the affirmation of virtue’s struggle to be. In the heavens, where gravity is tangential, falling is just a form of flying. On Earth, however, where the pull of gravity is ever fierce, potential’s glide is impeded by the propensity of our falleness. Yet, it is on Earth where humanity dreams of flight; a dream not for paradise lost, but a dream summoned by the promise of what could be. Since this promise is one which only falleness can keep; virtue is a harvest which humanity must reap.

Unfortunately this dream is not destined for success. Denied sufficient lift to transcend our falleness, its flight must fail. It must, for falling promises not the soaring epiphany of flight. Falling promises only the hope for flight, a hope sustained through relentless sacrifice. So intangible is virtue’s substance, that its essence cannot be grasped by ethics alone. Moral presence is sustainable only if the ethical is articulated by the accompaniment of aesthetics. Ushering morality into the world is not the responsibility of the heavenly angels. That duty rests upon their fallen brothers. Surprising as this may seem, it is not only so, but must be so, for virtue is not the descent of goodness from above. Virtue is an incarnation from within. It is ultramateriality, which calls forth virtue’s flight. It is mortality, which reaches for its substance.

The task of art is to express the urgency of existence. Art, which merely hums the tune of aesthetics, is deaf to ultramateriality’s inner calling. Art, which simply lip-syncs the librettos of formalism, is mute to her own voice. To embrace the pathos of existence, art must sing forth the polyphony of ethics and aesthetics. These are the songs which the fallen angels sing. Their songs contain not the anesthetic melodies of a blissful forgetfulness; they are filled with those trepidacious harmonies arising from the gap between potentiality and carnality. These perplexing harmonies compel humanity to reach beyond the beautiful, even beyond the sublime, to unmask the horror. Their nakedness strips bare existence to expose that falling is no disgrace. Their confessions of our utter destitution are prayers for the redemption of our depravity.