God has one goal: when the whole fullness of our nature has been perfected in each man, some straightway even in this life purified from evil, others healed hereafter through fire for the appropriate length of time, and others ignorant of the experience equally of good and of evil in the life here, God intendsContinue reading “when the whole fullness of our nature has been perfected”
Nothing is inexorable but love. Love which will yield to prayer is imperfect and poor. Nor is it then the love that yields, but its alloy. …For love loves unto purity. Love has ever in view the absolute loveliness of that which it beholds. Where loveliness is incomplete, and love cannot love its ﬁll ofContinue reading “love has ever in view the absolute loveliness of that which it beholds”
God’s Mother was born today, the first of the twelve great feasts in the church year. These poor thoughts rattled around in my mind over the last few days, so I set them down. Those familiar with the feasts connected to Mary’s life will see that my words are just clumsy responses to three ofContinue reading “she will carry to her rambling race that bright and living fire”
It was this hour by the dying firelight that the gnomes loved more than any other time. It was then they talked of so many things. “Funny how a fire makes you want to stare and stare at it,” said Dodder reflectively, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke and watching the glow of theContinue reading “a fire is the only bit of wildness left in his house”
Roses often burn. Theirs is the most purifying ﬂame of all. …Fire is roses. From A Swiftly Tilting Planet by L’Engle (echoing MacDonald and Dante).
Supreme and fiery force who has kindled all sparks of life and breathed forth none of death, …fiery life of the divine substance, you blaze above the beauty of the fields, shine in the waters, and burn in the sun, moon, and stars. You, the fiery force, lie hidden in these things, and they flameContinue reading “all these things are alive in their essence”
Poem by by Emily Dickinson. THE RETURN. Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, ‘t will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony! ToContinue reading “Brewed from decades of agony”