Consumed by a Greater Desire

When Christ Becomes More Real Than the World

“Within me there is no fire, but only water living and speaking in me, and saying to me from within, ‘Come to the Father.’”

— St. Ignatius of Antioch

There are certain texts that leave us inspired.

There are others that leave us exposed.

This letter of Ignatius does not comfort me. It judges me.

Not because Ignatius condemns anyone. He does not. His words are too full of Christ for that. Rather, his love reveals the poverty of my own.

Ignatius is on his way to martyrdom, and what occupies his thoughts is not survival, reputation, comfort, success, ministry, influence, or legacy.

He wants Christ.

Not Christ as an idea.

Not Christ as a religious interest.

Not Christ as one love among many.

He wants Christ with a terrible and all-consuming desire.

“I seek him who died for our sake. I desire him who rose for us.”

Everything else has become small in comparison.

Reading him, I find myself asking a painful question: Do I actually desire God, or do I desire the things I hope God will give me?

Health.

Security.

Recognition.

Meaning.

Peace.

Vindication.

Relief from suffering.

Even spiritual experiences.

How often do I seek these things while calling it a search for God?

The Fathers tell us that the spiritual life begins when we stop lying about what we love.

Not what we claim to love.

What we actually love.

What occupies our thoughts.

What stirs our imagination.

What we fear losing.

What we secretly hope will save us.

The tragedy is not that we desire too much.

It is that we desire too little.

Our hearts were created for the Infinite, yet we spend our lives bargaining for crumbs.

A little comfort.

A little praise.

A little control.

A little distraction.

A little victory over our enemies.

And then we wonder why the soul remains restless.

Ignatius had discovered something that many Christians never discover.

The world cannot satisfy the heart because the heart was created for Someone.

Not something.

Someone.

This is why his language sounds almost shocking to modern ears.

“I want no more of what men call life.”

He is not rejecting creation.

He is not despising the world.

He is simply seeing it clearly.

Compared to Christ, everything else has become secondary.

Compared to Christ, kingdoms look like toys.

Compared to Christ, worldly success looks like dust.

Compared to Christ, even life itself loses its absolute value.

This is the sobriety of the saints.

Not hatred of the world.

Freedom from enchantment with it.

The modern elders speak often about this.

Elder Sophrony said that until the soul tastes God, it continually seeks substitutes.

And those substitutes become addictions.

Some are obvious.

Others are baptized and made respectable.

Religious work.

The need to be right.

The need to be needed.

The need to be admired.

The need to save others.

The need to be seen as holy.

The ego can feed upon all these things while speaking constantly about Christ.

Ignatius tears away every disguise.

Only one desire remains.

“Come to the Father.”

What strikes me most is that this cry does not come from heroic effort.

It comes from grace.

The living water is already speaking within him.

The Spirit is already crying out in the depths of his being.

This is why the Fathers insist that holiness is not primarily moral achievement.

It is the purification of desire.

The gradual displacement of lesser loves by the Love itself.

The Christian life is not ultimately about becoming stronger.

It is about becoming simpler.

One desire.

One treasure.

One beloved.

One thing necessary.

And perhaps that is why this text wounds me.

Because when I examine my own heart, I still find a thousand competing desires.

I desire Christ.

But I also desire comfort.

I desire Christ.

But I also desire security.

I desire Christ.

But I also desire approval.

I desire Christ.

But I also desire control.

The martyr sees one thing.

I see many.

And yet perhaps this recognition is itself a mercy.

The Fathers tell us that healing begins when illusion ends.

We cannot offer our hearts to God while pretending they already belong to Him.

We must come honestly.

Poor.

Divided.

Restless.

Scattered.

And place the whole tangled mass before Him.

“O Lord, I desire You, but not yet as Ignatius desired You. I desire You, but my heart is still full of rivals. I desire You, but I still bargain for lesser things. Purify my desire. Crucify what is false. Teach me to hunger for You above every earthly consolation.”

For in the end, every ascetical struggle, every prayer, every fast, every tear, every disappointment, every loss, every humiliation has but one purpose:

To make room for a greater love.

To become a human being, as Ignatius says.

To become capable of God.

To discover that beneath all our desires there has always been one Voice speaking within us:

“Come to the Father.”