A New Heaven

That strange, tattered glory, the Christian Church, claims that there is a redemption from the rat-trap of time and successiveness and tragedy. It claims that he there is meaning which enfolds it, but it can only be spoken in riddles and parables and whispered poetry of bread that lives and endures forever. It says that none of what we mourn for is every rose from every summer that ever was, as well as the heart-break of every autumn, is contained in the glorious eternity of the Father who calls us to himself. He has given us living bread for the journey, food that time cannot whither. We look through the fitful stereoscope of Faith and we see that endless going up to Jerusalem, and that suffering and that dying. Then there is the hush before dawn in the garden where they laid him. No movement. Only the strange and wistful twilight in which e always see yesterday's grave. And then a sudden and terrible glory rises from that ancient sorrow, and suffering itself is transfigured, and time is transcended. The vision may fade and drift out of focus, but that is why we bear with gladness the primordial sorrow of the world.