We become so intent upon defining Church, focused primarily on its mission or role. We see it as system and society, as component, participant and embodiment of both God's plan and our own. It is all part of whatever else we would see and for all of its divinity we delight most in the frailty of its being human. It is what we seem to love and despair of in nearly equal measure. It is always so essential and at the same time so lacking. We draw it close and feel driven back. It never meets our expectation yet it sometimes will exceed itself, going beyond where it is mired and find in practice all of the promise it has always had.
We are critical of Church, bound so inexorably to it and enraged by its failure as much as we are delighted by its ability to be what nothing else might ever become. Church will never meet our needs, exhaust our speculation or fail to awaken within us the fierce loyalty and intense pain that only family can engender.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment