The mind rooted in faith operates differently from the mind rooted in doubt.* Doubt, interestingly, comes from the Latin "dubitas," which can as easily be translated "fear." In Elizabethan times, that correlary was not obscure, as you can see when you read, for example, Hamlet.
This afternoon, I will be participating in a Podcast on Hamlet in which I hope to invite people to read Shakespeare's play and to look for what is obvious. Meanwhile, I'm reading the Iliad for the Apprenticeship and have been thinking quite a bit about how to read and to teach it.
The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.
Sir Edward Grey
August 3, 1914
The Bible introduces us to at least nine or eleven (depending on how you look at it) temples, all of which are understood in light of the others. They seem to come in groups of three.
There is the temple of the uncreated heavens, the eternal temple, which, Revelaton suggestions, is God Himself.
Then there is the temple of the created heavens, which Isaiah describes in Isaiah 60 (heaven is my throne, and earth is my footstool).
Consider these words from Eric Hoffer, written in 1951, and responding to what he saw as a dangerous trend from the perspective of a sociologist:
A sublime religion inevitably generates a strong feeling of guilt. There is unavoidable contrast between loftiness of profession and imperfection of practice. And, as one would expect, the feeling of guilt promotes hate and brazenness. Thus it seems that the more sublime the faith the more virulent the hatred it breeds.
I've read that people become happier around 50 and I've wondered why. I figure it probably has something to do with time.
Perhaps people in their later years accept that they cannot escape time, both its raveges and its potentials.
When one is younger, perhaps, he can cling to the delusion that a decision can bring something to an end, that by making some sort of big, dramatic decision, one can attain a stability.
I'm suffering from an embarrasing problem. It boils down to this: I believe that Christ makes sense of the cosmos and of life, and that without Him life doesn't end up making sense.
Only, I don't believe this in some heartfelt, sentimental way, as in, "I believe there's a reason for everything that happens," or some such vacuous avoidance of reality that is true but not meaningful in most contexts. I'm not talking about a feeling or a shortcut to consolation.
I believe that in actual fact Christ makes sense of everything.
A Few Axioms
We imitate: It would be sensible to ignore the pride that strives to transcend that.
We are an imitation: It would be good to embrace the Glory that comes with that.
We are imitated: It would be wise to embrace the responsibility that comes with that.
It is our wisdom and glory sensibly to humble ourselves by choosing responsibly who and what we imitate and by doing it well, for we become what we behold.
Gabriel was an angry and ambitious young man determined to change the world, but he was having a bad day. Only a half an hour earlier, at 10:00 AM, a friend had been arrested for ineffectively tossing a bomb at a car, the main effect of which was apparently to scratch the nape of a lady's neck, pop some tires, blow out a store-front window, bloody the Sunday dress of some people in the crowd, and lightly wound an aide to the dignitary he had targeted. Sure, the lady was a duchess; still, the achievement failed to match the youthful and idealistic ambitions of the bomb-thrower.
I never did well accepting the nasally comments by professors about the flaws in great books. For some reason, and I think that reason is the amount of time my family and church directed by attention to the Bible, I started out liking glib answers but came in pretty rapid order to dislike them.