The winter is past,
the rains are over and gone.
Song of Songs 2:11
On this day of the winter solstice, let no one say the Church has no sense of humor.
Continuing with periodicals on the night-table, Ellsberg on the desk, Peguy in the chapel stall. Enchanted by his poem in God Speaks titled "Night."
Feeling cranky this morning, as usual. The world will go on, but we the human race will not unless we grow up, check our greed, and stop being violent to each other. We are only beginning to understand collectively the depths of our bent toward violence. We are nowhere near surrendering our selfish, self-aggrandizing ways. When will we become what we hope? When will I become what I hope? I tire of praising peace without practicing it. I weary of adoration without imitation of what I profess to adore. And I want to hear no more of holiness, much less talk about it myself, unless I offer my set-apartness for the making of justice, of making love in public.
Faith sharing with the men at the prison this afternoon, and faith sharing within our own fraternity this evening. Going into the world today with my face set like flint.
Feeling the nips of winter and willing my body to stay warm in spite of the austere air.