I spoke for a couple minutes in church today, reading the passage from St. Matthew about the murder of the innocents and Rachel weeping for her children, and I fought back tears and I said I hoped God was on the move and that joy comes in the morning. That heightened emotional state has continued into the wet, blustery evening. The lights are flickering on and off. Ginny is restless. And with too much to do—including a grant to finish and a book to write—I’m overwhelmed a bit by how much I love this fantastic and sometimes fucked up world. What a privilege it is to be here. Growing up I was often taught that Jesus died just to get us into heaven. He was a rope ladder dangling over the side of a rescue helicopter, beckoning the faithful upward. Tonight of all nights I see as never before that Jesus thought the world itself was worth dying for. This fantastic but deeply flawed world.
Murder of the Innocents