Memento Vivere (phr.) remember that you must live.
The Vignette
Imagine being born into a world where everyone was equal.
Not merely equal before God and the law, but truly equal in every way.
The beautiful wear masks to hide their beauty. The strong wear weights to make them weak. And the intelligent wear earphones that sound off with a 21-gun salute every 20 seconds, so that they can never think.
For 14 years, you’ve worn a mask to hide your beauty. For 14 years, you’ve worn iron kettle bells fixed around your wrists and ankles. For 14 years, you couldn’t think in a straight line for more than 19 seconds, before the mirror of your thoughts was shattered into a million shards by the deafening shriek of a thousand squealing cats tumbling into a stadium full of cymbals.
It’s a muggy day in April, and the air is as heavy as a cloud of steam in the sunshine. It makes little difference that you’re inside, because the government decided that—at least in April—all air should be equal too.
You are a ballerina in a concert hall, about to dance to the tune of poorly played Tchaikovsky. The lights dim, the television cameras begin to roll, and the world becomes a blinding blur as you begin to leap and spin. And you allow yourself to smile a little behind your mask, because even in its imperfection, there is beauty in the music, and today is the day you will shine like the sun.
But then the music is drowned out by a deafening cacophony in your ear, the kettle bell on your left ankle catches on something, and you trip and fall to the red carpet of the stage floor. You clutch your head as a hundred jackhammers pound away into the pavement of your skull. You can barely hear the music now, and hot tears well up in your eyes, unbidden.
Suddenly, the music stops, the noise fades, and all the other ballerinas are on the floor around you.
You look up to see a handsome boy with hair like the sunshine and fiery blue eyes, and weights hanging from his arms, waist, and legs. He towers before you and the rest of the ballerinas, his gaze resting on the lights and cameras. A large pair of headphones is on his head, and in his right hand is the mask he had been wearing a moment before.
It drops to the floor, and he kicks it off the stage and into the darkness.
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Next, he rips his headphones off and tosses them into the orchestra pit. He tears at the straps holding the weights to his body, and they pound the stage floor in quick succession, one-by-one, until he is finally free.
He steps forward. “I am the emperor! Everyone shall do as I say!” The boy’s voice is deep and resonant, like the sea, and his fiery eyes scan the crowd in the concert hall, seated in the darkness just beyond the cameras and the lights.
“I shall now select my Empress!” he says, his gaze roaming over the cowering ballerinas. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”
A moment passes, a single, still moment, like the breath before a plunge into ice-cold water. And then, trembling like a willow-tree in the wind, you rise to your feet and gaze into his eyes, unblinking. He steps forward and removes your mask and the piece in your ear. They clatter to the floor. He rips the straps holding the weights to your wrists and ankles, and they tumble and roll off the stage.
Then, he takes your hand in his. Yours is cold, but his is warm like the flame in his eyes. He smiles, and you smile back.
The boy barks an order at the orchestra, and they begin to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. The music is perfect this time, like clear, running water in the sun.
And you begin to dance.
Together, you spin and leap into the air as the stage lights shine down like the stars upon you.
And for a single, fleeting moment, your heart swells just a little, your face is flushed and warm, and an electric energy of something—something wonderful, passes through you, from the tips of your toes to your fingernails.
For a single, fleeting moment, you feel free.
He kisses you, and you kiss him back. And then you gaze into the deep blue of his eyes for what seems like an eternity as time rolls to a stop, and you are suspended in the air like two swirling motes in a sunbeam, dancing in the light like the angels.
Then a shot rings out. Another, and you’re falling to the earth like a dying star.
The last thing you feel is his hand squeezing yours one last time before the stage lights dim, the curtains fall, and everything is swallowed in darkness.
This story is a retelling of “Harrison Bergeron” by Kurt Vonnegut.
The Meaning
Memento vivere is a Latin term which means “remember that you must live.”
It reminds us that our lives fade like smoke in the wind and we should not get so caught up in existing that we forget to truly live.
To truly live means to die. To sacrifice our energy, our comfort, our time, and the life flowing in our veins to do the things that are true, good, and beautiful. To truly live is the sacrifice of the Cross, and after it, Resurrection life.
Nothing good ever comes without sacrifice. That is why all the best stories are about it.
The story of Harrison Bergeron tells us of the sacrifice of contentment in chains in exchange for a single, ephemeral moment of true life. The Lord of the Rings tells us of Frodo’s and Sam’s sacrifice of their home in the Shire, so that they could save Middle-Earth. The Gospels tell us of the sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ, who gave up His body, His blood, and divine glory to redeem you and to redeem me. To transform this worn and ragged cosmos into a thing of dazzling glory.
To make all things new.
I think of the saints and martyrs. The ones who sacrificed the comfort of a life lived in falsehood in exchange for a greater promise. They faced burning, and scourging, and the gnashing teeth of lions. They faced the horror and shame of the cross. And by the grace of God, they passed through the valley of the shadow of death and found eternal life.
These are the ones who truly lived. These are the ones who gave up their life for Christ’s sake and found it. And we must follow in their footsteps, because a life not lived by dying is a life that has no significance in the light of eternity.
More than that, the people in your life need you to have the courage to be the person you were created to be, because that is a role only you can fulfill. Perhaps you will never be called to die a martyr’s death. Still, you are called to sacrifice.
To sacrifice everything for the Lord Jesus. To sacrifice your time, convenience, and energy for those you love. To sacrifice the comfort of your phone to face the world.
This is what it means to truly live.
Here’s 14 things you can do to truly live
Pick three and challenge yourself to give them a try this summer.
Take 15 minutes on a Sunday evening to visit a person in a nursing home.
Learn to make ice cream for no reason and share it with your favorite people.
Introduce yourself to a neighbor you’ve never talked to before (bring a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies as an excuse for visiting).
After church on Sunday, intentionally talk to someone you usually don’t.
If they’re comfortable with it, pray for someone in front of them right that instant, instead of saying you’ll pray for them and (maybe) not doing it.
Ask that girl (or guy) out for coffee. Or if you’re married, plan a date for you and your spouse at a place you wouldn’t usually go.
Give a homeless person a plate of homemade brownies.
Intentionally compliment someone (in specific terms) in front of other people.
Tell someone you love that you’re proud of them, and why.
On your way home from work, take the scenic route on purpose (but please do not get lost).
Call someone you’d usually just text for no reason just to catch up. Tell them something you admire about them.
Try something relatively safe that you’re usually uncomfortable with. Like riding a roller coaster (if you hate roller coasters). Or trying a zip-line (if you’re afraid of heights). Do it with a loved one.
Make or buy someone a unique and beautiful gift for no reason whatsoever and mail it to them with a beautiful handwritten note.
Lock your phone in a drawer on a Saturday, and go for a walk instead. Or sit on the porch, close your eyes, and listen to the breeze roaring through the trees. Walk barefoot in the grass and the sunshine. Stand in a creek. Hug a tree.
Conclusion
Stop reading.
Close your eyes.
Breathe in slowly, and then breathe out.
Think of flowers in the sunlight. Or shooting stars streaking across the night sky. Or pink bubblegum right before a perfect pop.
Congratulations. You are alive. What are going to do about it?
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