What keeps the wild hope of Christmas alive year after year in a world notorious for dashing all hopes is the haunting dream that the child who was born that day may yet be born again even in us.
Not the least of my problems is that I can hardly even imagine what kind of an experience a genuine, self-authenticating religious experience would be. Without somehow destroying me in the process, how could God reveal himself in a way that would leave no room for doubt? If there were no room for doubt, there would be no room for me.
In winter when the snow and ice were fierce, we shook beneath our different roofs alone, and that’s what Hell is like, I think. It’s cold and shame and shaking. And worst of all, it’s loneliness.
Your father lies beneath a stone,′ old Aedwen mumbles, dozing at her wheel, and Godric thinks how it’s a stone as well they’re all beneath. The stone is need and hurt and gall and tongue-tied longing, for that’s the stone that kinship always bears, yet the loss of it would press more grievous still.
I’ll tell you this. I’ve labored all my life. I’ve baked and brewed. I’ve woven, spun, and dyed. I’ve kept my husband’s house and raised his young. And many other things besides. So where was time for holiness? What strength was left for faith? Let monks and nuns and priests have care of that. The dead shall rise? The Lord himself will sit as justicer in manor court? It may be true for all I know. But in the meanwhile bread, beer, work, and rest at night, they’re truth enough for me.
We try to fend off this world we yearn for where men live together as brothers because there is something in each of us that wants to live not for his brother but for himself. We fend it off because we know in our terrible wisdom that the price we must pay for it is death, the death of self and all the values of self, the death that must take place before the life can come.
But when melody wells up in thrushes’ throats, and bees buzz honeysong, and rock and river clap like hands in summer sun, then misery’s drowned in minstrelsy, and Godric’s glad in spite of all. Yet sometimes too he’s sad in spite of all, God knows, for there are other voices than the poor’s.
It will be no ordinary birth but a virgin birth because the birth of righteousness and love in this stern world is always a virgin birth. It is never men nor the nations of men nor all the power and wisdom of men that bring it forth but always God, and that is why the angel says, ‘The child to be born will be called the Son of God.
The power of God stands in violent contrast with the power of man. It is not external like man’s power, but internal. By applying external pressure, I can make a person do what I want him to do. This is man’s power. But as for making him be what I want him to be, without at the same time destroying his freedom, only love can make this happen.
Knowing that even though you see only through a glass darkly, even though lots of things happen – wars and peacemaking, hunger and homelessness – joy is knowing, even for a moment, that underneath everything are the everlasting arms.
Christ never promises peace in the sense of no more struggle and suffering. Instead, he helps us to struggle and suffer as he did, in love for one another.
This is what I think, in essence, prayer is. It is the breaking of silence. It is the need to be known and the need to know. Prayer is the sound made by our deepest aloneness.
So generally – and this is not a complicated point, God knows – the arts frame our life for us so that we will experience it. Pay attention to it.
I did not see anything because I was so caught up in an inner dialogue. So, stop and see. Become more sensitive, more aware, more alive to our own humanness, to the humanness of each other.
It seems to me almost before the Bible says anything else, it is saying that – how important it is to be alive and to pay attention to being alive, pay attention to each other, pay attention to God as he moves and as he speaks. Pay attention to where life or God has tried to take you.
And it seems to me the world is a manger, the whole bloody mess of it, where God is being born again and again and again and again and again and again. You’ve got your mind on so many other things. You are so busy with this and that, you don’t see it. You don’t notice it.
We’ve all had saints in our lives, by which I mean not plaster saints, not moral exemplars, not people setting for us a kind of suffocating good example, but I mean saints in the sense of life givers. People through knowing whom we become more alive.
I never took it for granted that they believed any of even the most basic affirmations of the Christian faith concerning such matters as God and Jesus, sin and salvation, but always tried to speak to their skepticism and to honor their doubts. I made a point of never urging on them anything I did not believe myself. I was candid about what, like them, I was puzzled by and uncertain of. I tried to be myself. I tried to be honest.
The decisive war is the other one – to become fully human, which means to become compassionate, honest, brave. And this is a war against the darkness which no man fights alone.
The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.
People are prepared for everything except for the fact that beyond the darkness of their blindness there is a great light. They are prepared to go on breaking their backs plowing the same old field until the cows come home without seeing, until they stub their toes on it, that there is a treasure buried in that field rich enough to buy Texas.