Why I am against sacrificial love. sacrificial love

I never understood sacrificial love. All these “yes, I’ll do anything for him” always seemed to me some kind of game of a sick imagination, phrases from cheap Brazilian TV shows ...

I didn't realize until I fell in love with it. At first, everything developed as usual: meetings, partings, behavior according to the favorite “carrot and stick” scheme, but at a certain stage I, as they say, “re-wired”. I moved to live with a loved one - and away we go ...

All my thoughts, all actions, all plans were accompanied by a relentless thought: “How will He look at this?” To be honest, I myself did not expect such humility from myself, to say nothing of my friends and relatives, who were even more surprised.

At that moment, I couldn’t behave differently, and the phrase “I’ll do anything for him” acquired a completely different meaning for me ... I didn’t just do what he liked, but completely sacrificed my interests, my opinion, it even reached that if he did not like my new dress, then I took it back to the store.

It would seem that a loved one, seeing such devotion and care, should have appreciated me and, as they say, do not have a soul in me. However, everything turned out just the opposite. Less than a month later, my man got used to it and began to take my sacrificial behavior for granted. After a while, I began to notice his coldness and even some neglect.

“Of course, you indulge him in everything! What kind of reaction do you expect from him,” my mother reacted to my timid complaints. But I, of course, did not listen to her and continued in the same spirit.

In the meantime, we began to swear more and more often. Because of trifles and trifles. Because of some stupid things that no one paid attention to before. And no matter what I did, no matter what sacrifices I made, he did not like everything. In the end, we decided to live separately for a while.

This period of time, of course, was filled with thoughts about what I was doing wrong and whether it was possible to somehow save our relationship. Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that sacrificial love ruined everything.

Men don't need sacrifice


First of all, men do not need sacrifice. However, like women. Imagine if your loved one, in order to please you, would completely give up his hobbies, stop living his life and just think about how to please and pamper you?

Perfect? Only at first glance. Over time, such over-concern begins to annoy, because good is exactly what they are looking for.

Sacrifice = fear


But I was really surprised when I revealed true reason his sacrifice. Under it, as it turned out, it was not love at all, but ... fear.

It is the fear of losing a loved one that drives us, forcing us to adapt, sacrifice, sometimes to the point of complete dissolution in another personality. But it is impossible to keep by tying.

Therefore, by showing such sacrifice, which no one needs, we only tie another person to it, deprive him of his freedom, which, naturally, causes him to protest.

Sacrificial love is uninteresting


Among other things, a woman who sacrifices everything for her man becomes uninteresting to him. Reflecting on my behavior, I remembered First stage our relationship, when I was more capricious and was in no hurry to refuse a meeting with a girlfriend, if my beloved suddenly wanted me to just be at home that evening.

At that time, he behaved very differently, and this is not surprising. After all, he could never guess my reaction. And sacrificial love is predictable and therefore uninteresting.

As a result, I decided to change my behavior, regardless of whether we will ever be together or not. But, fortunately, a month later we reconciled again and decided to start all over again. We are still together with this person, but already without any victims :)

How do you feel about sacrificial love?

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Love - what can be in that word?
Just the letters in the word, that's all.
And think a little, how much there is native,
And how much tenderness for your heart!

A child is born and immediately - the same love,
It grows, and mothers do not have a soul in it.
They lead by the hands, they are inseparable from him,
Babies give love to parents.

Time passes, got married or got married,
They gave birth to their children, took them to school ...
With love in her heart, a mother is proud of her children,
And he loves grandchildren, children gave birth to happiness ...

Don't love to live...

Love goes where it is expected.
Love goes to those who believe in it.
Larisa Chugunova

Love goes where it's expected.
Love goes to those who believe.
Who is ready to give shelter to the feeling
And he will open the door to the soul.

Love is not a fairy tale, not a game
And it doesn't happen on purpose.
Sometimes fragile, sometimes small
And took up a bit of space.

But still can't stand lies
And selfishness and cynicism.
Love is both truth and life.
Beautiful and uncompromising.

Love has no name
It was not given to her.
But between, between the two
It will come up anyway.

Love has no age
And has no time limit.
But with love, everyone is simple
Will not be alone.

Love has no home
And she has no enemies.
But everyone knows
From infancy.

Though there is no flesh, skin in it,
But death is not terrible with her.
I know what it's like
We all need her.

Love is like a white dove
It has two large wings.
If there is no love, you do it,
To live in every heart.

Love is wonderful and boundless
Like a white feather.
You will be touched very gently
And bring you good.

Love, love, she's like a bird
Like a flock of free pigeons.
Will be able to settle in consciousness
And become your protection.

Love seems to have nothing to do with
this also happens.
And the heart beats hot
and life is torn apart...

But there is one premonition
that he will certainly meet the prince.
No matter how you twist it, it's all the same -
as you can see, it shines to become a princess.

Perhaps he was tempted
and its color is not touched by anyone.
The issue of marriage was resolved
in love, it seemed - both are drowning.

The people are celebrating -
the bride is beautiful.
The prince leads her down the aisle,
she is destined to do so.

And here is the legal wife,
maybe...

I know how to create "Love"
Without superfluous and unnecessary words.

Let's take two liters of respect
Add a spoonful of admiration
A pinch of jealousy - for laughter
Three hundred grams of happiness and success,
Let's add sacrificial grams
And the nobility of a kilogram.
Doubt at the end of a knife...

Come up with a shape for the cake.

In the filling: fidelity kilo
And understanding at the same time.
Trust for a couple of spoons
We will add coquetry too.
Lubricate the whole form with revelation,
Sprinkle everything on top with patience ...

The product is ready for baking
On the...

My love, thank you for the Surprise!
Didn't expect to be reborn
What will come, that I, under the rhymes of the host,
I will fall before her, of course, prostrate ...
And, sounding, with the spring song of birds,
Flowers I will hear the smell of honey,
Herbs and thunderstorms, ozone unbearable cry,
From the nightingales, a newly appeared speech,
I will be struck in the midnight embrace ...

I came out, as if from a doomed coma,
Opening your eyes, feeling the meaning of life,
Rhymed with a meaningful line,
The phenomenon of return, from the underworld,
Singing of Nature harmonious Peace!

According to the story by N.S. Leskov "Non-lethal Golovan"

"What you have done to one of these little ones, you have done to Me."
(Matthew 25:40-45)

Golovan was given the nickname "non-lethal" due to the general belief that Golovan is a special person, a person who is not afraid of death. He was of enormous stature, swarthy, round-faced. blue eyes, with trimmed hair, mustache and beard. A calm and happy smile always lit up his face, played on his lips and in his intelligent kind eyes. Golovan always walked very quickly, as if in a hurry, but not evenly, but bouncing from his left foot. This was a mystery that could not be explained immediately.

Golovan lived in a huge shed, presented to him for some kind of service, which he was a great hunter and master. Golovan's sisters and his mother lived in one half of the shed, and in the other there were stalls for cows. There were chickens in the attic. Golovan himself slept winter and summer in a stall, near the bull, not afraid of the cold. With the dawn, he drove his herd into the dew, choosing the best grass on the banks of the river. Milk and cream, which Golovan supplied to the inhabitants of the city, were famous for their qualities.

Often, when Golovan sat by the fence and watched the cows, both adults and children approached him, to whom he told many sacred stories. Simple people often turned to Golovan for advice. Most often they came with questions about family troubles or disorder in the household.

Golovan listens and smiles, and then looks at his interlocutor and answers:

- I, brother, a bad adviser! Call on God for advice.

- How will you call him?

– Oh, brother, it’s very simple: pray and do it as if you need to die right now. Tell me, how would you do it then?

The interlocutor will answer, and Golovan will say:

- And I would, brother, dying, that's how I did it better.

And he will tell, as usual, cheerfully, with his usual smile.

His advice must have been very good, because they were always listened to and later thanked very much for them.

The reason for calling Golovan "non-lethal" was the following event. In the city of Orel and its environs, a devastating epidemic began, nicknamed by the people “pimple”. A person had abscesses, fever, the sick died quickly, weakened and fell asleep forever. But before last minute The patient was tormented by terrible thirst. To give water to the dying - this was care, but he was absent. The one who gave drink to the sick soon fell ill himself. At home, two or three dead lay side by side. The last tenant placed a bucket of water at his head and scooped it up until his hand was raised, then sucked a wet rag to death.

In such sad moments of the common disaster, the Lord nominated a fearless and selfless hero from the people - Golovan. He fearlessly entered the plague-ridden shacks and gave the infected not only water to drink, but milk as well. The nearest endangered village was located across the river, and Golovan did not have a boat. He removed the shed gates from their hinges and in the morning before dawn crossed them to the other side, went from hut to hut to moisten the dried mouths of the dying, to give water to those who were no longer able to raise their heads.

If the last member of the family died, Golovan closed the door, putting a cross on it with chalk as a sign that all the inhabitants of the house had already died.

Golovan's deadly ulcer did not concern him - neither his cattle, nor his domestic ones - no one fell ill. Since then, everyone has learned about the hitherto little-known Golovan and he became a legendary local hero, since, according to the common people, he “destroyed the ulcer itself, not sparing his warm blood for the people.” Everyone believed that he had a secret that helped him not get sick.

A certain shepherd Panka shed light on this secret. The people turned her into a legend.

In the morning, before dawn, Panka drove his cows to the river bank. It was still very cold, so Panka wrapped himself up in his holey clothes, lay down and fell asleep, when it suddenly seemed to him that someone on the opposite side of the river was descending from the steep. So a man went down to the river, stood on the water and went. He walks as if on dry land, only props himself up with a crutch. At first, Panka was taken aback. It was beginning to get light, and Panka wanted to go up to the very water through which the mysterious man had just passed. Panka came up and saw a wet gate and a pole. The matter turned out: it means that the non-lethal Golovan was floating, standing on the gate. “That's right, he went to some orphaned children to drink milk, because he always has bottles of drink in his bosom,” Panka decided.

And he wanted to ride on the gate himself. He took a pole, and swam across to the side where Golovanov's shed stands, went ashore, and walked around. Suddenly he hears Golovan shouting from the other side: “Hey, who stole my gate? Come back!”

Panka was a coward and hid in a hole. Then Golovan threw off his clothes, tied them up, put them on his head and swam, even though the water was very cold. He swam across the river, started to get dressed, but suddenly looked under his left knee and stopped. It was already light, a guy with a scythe appeared in the distance. Golovan loudly shouted to him:

- Darling, give me a scythe!

The guy gave him a scythe. Then Golovan, pulling the caviar at his leg with one hand, in an instant cut off a large piece of meat from it and threw the meat into the river.

Golovan pressed his wound with both hands and fell. Panka, forgetting his fear, ran up, took Golovan together with the guy, and they dragged him into the hut. Here Golovan ordered to twist the wound as tightly as possible with a towel so that the blood would stop running. Golovan asked to put a bucket of water near him, and Panke ordered not to tell anyone about what he saw.

The men left, shaking with horror, and told everyone everything. And the peasants who heard the story immediately folded popular belief: “Golovan did this for a reason. He, having suffered in soul for people, sacrificed a piece of his body, thereby suffering for everyone. And he himself will not die, because, apparently, he has a “living stone”, from which he is a “non-lethal” person. (In the Gospel there are such words: “The rock is Christ”, - Ed.)

This act was explained very simply: having seen a plague abscess on his leg, Golovan quickly cut it off along with the leg muscle, which is why he always limped later.

Golovan was a deeply religious person. He often went to the cathedral to Father Peter for confession and asked the priest: “Shame on me, father, I don’t like myself very much.” “His conscience is whiter than snow,” said Father Peter, who understood and loved Golovan.

A righteous and selfless man was Golovan. While his life was surrounded by legendary fiction, everything seemed incredible, and when they learned about his deed for certain, his holy simplicity became clear. The Perfect Love that animated him placed him above his fears and even subordinated nature to him.

Romantics, as a rule, are far from wisdom: if they undertake to describe love, then one can expect in advance a story about exceptional passion or about a beautiful and sublime feat performed, at least in the name of all mankind. There will be artistically impeccable scenery and noble mise-en-scenes. And, of course, the hero will be lucky, in last resort, - a beautiful dramatic struggle, albeit with a deliberately pre-prepared defeat.

Meanwhile, the great is best manifested in the insignificant, and as Rabindranath Tagore rightly noted,

It was not by this that the radiance exalted itself,

That shines in infinite heights,

And those that voluntarily limited

Himself a dewdrop on a leaf.

And therefore, the story of sacrificial love requires, rather, a documentary, non-staged story. Let the corner of the capital's "Square of Three Stations" serve as a scenery and smell of vagabonds, and two old university friends, one of whom by that time had become a hieromonk of a Moscow monastery, serve as the characters. If in the described incident one can discern a feat, then it should be recognized: it was not crowned with success - it was not possible to save a person's life.

The action is preceded by an everyday mise-en-scene, which can be observed almost every day: hundreds of people in disorder cross the square, going down from a commuter train to the subway or changing from one train to another.

The action begins with a frightened female cry and an excited roar of the crowd: people begin to stray into a ring, surrounding some kind of dark figure sprawled on the ground.

Two beggars quarreled. One of them strongly pushed his friend away and he, unsuccessfully falling, hit the back of his head on the edge of the step. The wound turns out to be dangerous: blood flows in a stream, forming a large dirty puddle. Passers-by, who turned out to be involuntary witnesses of the incident, numb, as if struck by tetanus. Indeed, a man dies in front of them. It is impossible to turn away and leave, pretending that this matter does not concern you. Then, probably, it would be worth a lot of effort to make peace with yourself. But there is not enough strength to move forward and do something useful in this situation. The dying man is so disgusting that he hardly resembles a man: his whole head is covered with some kind of terrible ulcers; the smell of decay and impurity creates an invisible, but completely insurmountable barrier. Clamped by disgust and their own conscience, people do not move.

The only person not covered by the general paralysis of the will is the young hieromonk. He moves the crowd aside, approaches the prostrate body, with a sharp movement tears off the sleeve of his clothes, and without hesitation plunges his hands into this stinking bundle of rags, trying to bandage the wounded.

The arrived ambulance frees people from the yoke of conscience and the ring around the victim begins to quickly melt. Wearing rubber gloves, the orderlies pack the lifeless body in a special bag, put it in a car and take it away. The monk, stained with mud and blood, looks around, looking for somewhere to put himself in order ... And meets the gaze of his comrade, who seems to be about to vomit from what he sees. It's strange: the one who proved himself more worthy than others in a critical situation feels the need to justify himself: “You understand,” he says with a guilty look. I happened to look at his hands. And there, on this arm, wrinkles, like my father's.

One respected writer, reading the life of a famous Catholic saint, was greatly embarrassed by the story of how he hugged a freezing beggar, warming him with his body. “Christian love is one sheer hypocrisy. - He claimed. - You can sincerely and passionately hug beautiful woman that smells like a rose. But hugging a beggar, inhaling the stench from his mouth, can only be done by gritting your teeth.” Meanwhile, anyone can notice that the father is changing his diaper. little son with tenderness. Obviously in long-awaited firstborn there is no evil for him. As does not exist for an already adult son bad smell exuded by the decrepit body of a beloved father. So in a moment of inspiration, a person is able to forget about hunger. And often the loving, poetic affect of the soul turns out to be stronger than the physiological disgust.

“Love for your own is natural and understandable. - They will tell us. “Perhaps it is biologically determined at all. But how can you love your neighbor? After all, this is a person who accidentally met and is a complete stranger to you? It can be assumed that the monk, when bandaging the homeless man, did not notice his impurities and ulcers at all, because he saw the familiar paternal “wrinkles on his arm.” This is similar to how, meeting a countryman in a foreign land, we rejoice and embrace him, which, perhaps, due to his personal qualities, he is not at all worthy. This man, without suspecting it himself, reminds us of the abandoned Motherland, the true object of our love, and therefore turns out to be warmed by hospitality, which he did not expect.

So "mysterious and incomprehensible" christian love to the neighbor is possible. But a necessary prerequisite for it is love for one's own - father, mother, brother. After all, for someone who has never loved his own father, the “wrinkles on the hand” of his neighbor cannot say anything.

From the incident on the square it is clear that love has a poetic nature. After all, poetry is by no means rhymed lines, but a special kind of kinship formed between things by the providence of God. The pronounced name "Dostoevsky" evokes memories of foggy Petersburg and suggests the Russian idea. "Che Guevara" brings to mind the words "Cuba" and "revolution". So for someone who is close to holiness and therefore is especially sensitive to the poetry of the world, the wrinkles on the hand of an elderly stranger make you see in him a dear, beloved person.

But here's the thing: every old man has wrinkles on his arm. How many fathers is the hero of our story able to discover in the world? And how much good, impossible for others, can he do? beautiful girl Dozens of men are ready to help. And ugly?

She and many similar people who have nothing to pay for good can only be helped by that force that "does not seek its own." Plato called such love the word "agape", which means "sacrificial", and considered it perfect. Unlike other types of love, it leaves a person with freedom and truly royal sovereignty, because if Romeo cannot live without Juliet, and Pushkin yearns away from friends, a person who has agape in himself will never remain an orphan. In order to find a father, he only needs to look at the hands of his neighbor. Sacrificial love is "not afraid" of anything, because it cannot be unhappy. So today, in a completely everyday way, the words of Christ come true: “There is no one who would leave brothers or sisters, father or mother, wife or children for the sake of Me and the Gospel, and would not receive a hundred times more brothers and sisters, fathers, mothers, and children during this time, in the midst of persecution, but in the age the future of eternal life."