As I walk a cobbled street, I come upon the door of an old cathedral – slightly ajar. I walk up the stone steps and push it lightly and step into a cool, dark, quiet space. It is coated with the prayers of ordinary saints, the hopes of generations of work-a-day people. Continue reading
When I am honest with myself, I struggle with sin.
There are, of course, the daily slights and stumbles; the things I regret, or kick myself for at the end of the day; the first world sins of breaking my diet or going a few miles over the speed limit. Those pester me, but they are really not my struggle.
‘Why do we have to read poetry?’
‘Read it and you will know why. If you still don’t know, read it again.’
Some of them took the things she said to heart, as she had done once when they were said to her. She was helping them assume their humanity.
‘People have always made poetry,’ she told them. ‘Trust that it will matter to you.’
… Some of them did listen. This seemed to her to be perfectly miraculous.”
How do we assume our humanity – as individuals; as societies? What is it about listening to the heart of another that helps to shape our own? What is it about seeing the world through the eyes of another that stretches our soul beyond its stingy boundaries? Continue reading
Quiet Hope 