From there:

Not darkness but twilight
In which even the best
of minds must make its way
now. And slowly the questions
occur, vague but formidable
for all that. We pass our hands
over their surface like blind
men feeling for the mechanism
that will swing them aside. They
yield, but only to re-form
as new problems; and one
does not even do that
but towers immovable
before us.

Is there no way
of other thought of answering
its challenge? There is an anticipation
of it to the point of
dying. There have been times
when, after long on my knees
in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled
from my mind, and I have looked
in and seen the old questions lie
folded and in a place
by themselves, like the piled
graveclothes of love’s risen body.

Christ is risen! Easter blessings to all 🖼 Resurrection, Luca Giordano, 1665 #HappyEaster #Alleluia #AMDG pic.twitter.com/8sU4wqpY2m

— Joe Petriello (@joepetriello) April 12, 2020

‘They walked to the Eastern edge of the hill and looked down. The one big star had almost disappeared. The country all looked dark grey, but beyond, at the very end of the world, the sea showed pale. The sky began to turn red. They walked to and fro more times than they could count between the dead Aslan and the Eastern ridge, trying to keep warm; and oh, how tired their legs felt. Then at last, as they stood for a moment looking out towards the sea and Cair Paravel (which they could now just make out) the red turned to gold along the line where the sea and the sky met and very slowly up came the edge of the sun. At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise—a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant’s plate.
“What’s that?” said Lucy, clutching Susan’s arm.
“I—I feel afraid to turn round,” said Susan; “something awful is happening.”
“They’re doing something worse to him,” said Lucy. “Come on!” And she turned, pulling Susan round with her.
The rising of the sun had made everything look so different—all the colours and shadows were changed—that for a moment they didn’t see the important thing. Then they did. The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the two girls rushing back to the Table.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” sobbed Lucy; “they might have left the body alone.”
“Who’s done it?” cried Susan. “What does it mean? Is it more magic?”
“Yes!” said a great voice behind their backs. “It is more magic.” They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again) stood Aslan himself.
“Oh, Aslan!” cried both the children, staring up at him, almost as much frightened as they were glad.
“Aren’t you dead then, dear Aslan?” said Lucy.
“Not now,” said Aslan.
“You’re not—not a—?” asked Susan in a shaky voice. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ghost.
Aslan stooped his golden head and licked her forehead. The warmth of his breath and a rich sort of smell that seemed to hang about his hair came all over her.
“Do I look it?” he said.
“Oh, you’re real, you’re real! Oh, Aslan!” cried Lucy and both girls flung themselves upon him and covered him with kisses.
“But what does it all mean?” asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer.
“It means,” said Aslan, “that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards. And now—
“Oh yes. Now?” said Lucy jumping up and clapping her hands.
“Oh, children,” said the Lion, “I feel my strength coming back to me. Oh, children, catch me if you can!” He stood for a second, his eyes very bright, his limbs quivering, lashing himself with his tail. Then he made a leap high over their heads and landed on the other side of the Table. Laughing, though she didn’t know why, Lucy scrambled over it to reach him. Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hill-top he led them, now hopelessly out of their reach, now letting them almost catch his tail, now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again, and now stopping unexpectedly so that all three of them rolled over together in a happy laughing heap of fur and arms and legs. It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind. And the funny thing was that when all three finally lay together panting in the sun the girls no longer felt in the least tired or hungry or thirsty.
“And now,” said Aslan presently, “to business. I feel I am going to roar. You had better put your fingers in your ears.”
And they did. And Aslan stood up and when he opened his mouth to roar his face became so terrible that they did not dare to look at it. And they saw all the trees in front of him bend before the blast of his roaring as grass bends in a meadow before the wind. Then he said,
“We have a long journey to go. You must ride on me.” And he crouched down and the children climbed onto his warm, golden back and Susan sat first holding on tightly to his mane and Lucy sat behind holding on tightly to Susan. And with a great heave he rose underneath them and then shot off, faster than any horse could go, downhill and into the thick of the forest.
That ride was perhaps the most wonderful thing that happened to them in Narnia. Have you ever had a gallop on a horse? Think of that; and then take away the heavy noise of the hoofs and the jingle of the harness and imagine instead the almost noiseless padding of the great paws. Then imagine instead of the black or grey or chestnut back of the horse the soft roughness of golden fur, and the mane flying back in the wind. And then imagine you are going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse….’

—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Chapter XV

Happy Easter! I've always liked this painting of Caravaggio's. Good art demonstrates skill; masterpieces tell an entire story.

"Caravaggio was a master of light and shadow, and he uses this chiaroscuro to create a narrative through line in this piece. The shadows (representing… pic.twitter.com/fyK9HAjgeu

— Lawrence Hamtil (@lhamtil) March 31, 2024

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His Flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that pierced died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not paper-mache,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

–John Updike (1932-2009)

The Risen Lord at Emmaus: illustrating Easter Wednesday's Gospel with this window from Sainte-Pierre in Chartres. https://t.co/QAyeUgJBbd pic.twitter.com/s3Qg2sHuq0

— Fr Lawrence Lew, O.P. (@LawrenceOP) April 3, 2024

Sam believes that Gandalf has fallen a catastrophic distance and has died. But in the end of the story, with Sam having been asleep for a long while and then beginning to regain consciousness, Gandalf stands before Sam, robed in white, his face glistening in the sunlight, and says:

“Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?”

But Sam lay back, and stared with open mouth, and for a moment, between bewilderment and great joy, he could not answer. At last he gasped: “Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?”

“A great shadow has departed,” said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land; and as he listened the thought came to Sam that he had not heard laughter, the pure sound of merriment, for days without count. It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known. But he himself burst into tears. Then as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from bed… “How do I feel?” he cried.” Well, I don’t know how to say it. I feel, I feel” –he waved his arms in the air– “I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”

— J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), The Return of the King

Painting at Bedtime.
Noli me Tangere.
James Tissot.

French artist James Tissot was best known for his sumptuous oil paintings in France and Britain. He also painted a series of watercolours based on the life of Christ. Here Christ meets Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection. pic.twitter.com/0uorTt2hF8

— Peter Jones (@PeterJones40) April 22, 2019

When I see blossoms spring,
And hear the birds’ song,
A sweet love-longing
My heart through-stung, [pierces]
All for a love new
That is so sweet and true,
That gladdens all my song:
I know in truth, iwis,
My joy and all my bliss
On him is all ylong. [is all because of him]

Of Jesu Christ I sing,
Who is so fair and free, [noble]
Sweetest of all thing;
His own ought I well to be.
So far for me he sought,
With suffering he me bought,
With wounds two and three;
Well sore he was swung,
And for me with spear was stung,
Nailed to the tree….

Read it all.

'When I see blosmes springe,
And hear foules song,
A swete love-longynge
Myn herte thourhout stong,
Al for a love newe
That is so swete and trewe,
That gladieth al my song…'

A medieval springtime poem for Eastertide https://t.co/lXKwvyuXB1 pic.twitter.com/Kxkirwbbre

— Eleanor Parker (@ClerkofOxford) April 1, 2024

Gather gladness from the skies;
Take a lesson from the ground;
Flowers do ope their heavenward eyes
And a Spring-time joy have found;
Earth throws Winter’s robes away,
Decks herself for Easter Day.

Beauty now for ashes wear,
Perfumes for the garb of woe.
Chaplets for disheveled hair,
Dances for sad footsteps slow;
Open wide your hearts that they
Let in joy this Easter Day.

Seek God’s house in happy throng;
Crowded let His table be;
Mingle praises, prayer and song,
Singing to the Trinity.
Henceforth let your souls alway
Make each morn an Easter Day.

Read it all.

A glorious sight – clouds of white blossom fill the air at Castle Gardens in Ludlow. This fantastic display lies just outside the castle walls, but don’t let the blue sky fool you – shortly after I took this shot the heavens opened and I ended up getting drenched. #Shropshire pic.twitter.com/NQFEtYBu6Z

— ShropshireAndBeyond (@ShropsAndBeyond) April 1, 2024

The view from my bedroom window combines with thoughts of Easter to remind me of this poem by R S Thomas. pic.twitter.com/y5wb41QtlC

— Tom Holland (@holland_tom) March 31, 2024

All night had shout of men, and cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.

Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter’d dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.

–Alice Meynell (1847-1922)

There's a rumour, a whisper. Something's happening. Could it be? #HolySaturday @gandkchurch @cofe pic.twitter.com/4xJz6oTEpv

— Fr Craig Huxley-Jones SCP (@FatherHux) April 15, 2017

HOW life and death in Thee
Agree !
Thou hadst a virgin womb
And tomb.
A Joseph did betroth
Them both.

–Richard Crashaw (1613-1649)

Pietro Lorenzetti
(c.1280-c.1348)
Entombment
c.1320
Fresco
Lower Church,S.Francesco
Assisi#HolySaturday #HolyWeek#DonneInArte #ArtLovers pic.twitter.com/D2qtUwoQ3d

— Alessandra Ciccolini (@AlessandraCicc6) April 14, 2017

This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc’d with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag’d, and torne?

Read it all.

Mikhail Nesterov – Crucifixion, 1908 pic.twitter.com/9WOnc8qcBW

— Fr. David Abernethy ☦️ (@philokalia_min) June 25, 2021

St. Peter once: ‘Lord, dost Thou wash my feet?’-
Much more I say: Lord, dost Thou stand and knock
At my closed heart more rugged than a rock,
Bolted and barred, for Thy soft touch unmeet,
Nor garnished nor in any wise made sweet?
Owls roost within and dancing satyrs mock.
Lord, I have heard the crowing of the cock
And have not wept: ah, Lord, thou knowest it.
Yet still I hear Thee knocking, still I hear:
‘Open to Me, look on Me eye to eye,
That I may wring thy heart and make it whole;
And teach thee love because I hold thee dear
And sup with thee in gladness soul with soul
And sup with thee in glory by and by.’

–Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Portrait of a bearded man as an Apostle (Saint Peter) Pier Francesco Mola. @zigut @sofia_pinzi @45lefia @silvia_nader pic.twitter.com/Hi41L2vdNX

— 🎨 Bel Art – Orlando Fernández — 🎨🎼 (@ofervi) February 9, 2014

Robinson’s reading is full of telling details and keenly observed parallels. This enables her to show that what Jews term the binding of Isaac is not a test of Abraham’s faith, but a prohibition of the child sacrifice that occurred in some other cultures, for example in Carthage. Although she is familiar with biblical scholarship and makes use of it where necessary, this work is best seen as a close, attentive reading from a literary point of view. In her approach there is something of the sense of astonishment and marvel that is present in her novels. About the first words of Genesis she writes, “When I think there was a day when a human hand first wrote those words, I am filled with awe. This sentence is a masterpiece of compression.”

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” Hamlet said to Horatio. That is the conviction that controls the narrative of Genesis, culminating in its closing, when Joseph says to the brothers who tried to murder him, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today.”

Robinson makes few concessions to the reader. There is no introduction or conclusion; there are no chapter headings or signposts. She just wants her audience to look again at Genesis and see what they make of it.

Read it all.

Reading Genesis by Marilynne Robinson review – rich literary reading of the first book of the Bible https://t.co/oBAzmJviaq

— Guardian Books (@GuardianBooks) March 13, 2024

War broke out in August and in September 1914 Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy wrote these words in his parish magazine:

“I cannot say too strongly that I believe every able-bodied man ought to volunteer for service anywhere. Here ought to be no shirking of that duty.”

This from the man who would, before long be writing this, “Waste”:

“Waste of Muscle, waste of Brain,
Waste of Patience, waste of Pain,
Waste of Manhood, waste of Health,
Waste of Beauty, waste of Wealth,
Waste of Blood, and waste of Tears,
Waste of Youth’s most precious years,
Waste of ways the Saints have trod,
Waste of glory, Waste of God–War!”

Read it all.

The Church of England also commemorates Geoffrey Studdert-Kennedy, Priest, Poet, 1929

Photo of a memorial to Rev Studdert-Kennedy in the Church of St Edmund-the-King, Lombard Street, City of London via https://t.co/NhBvBSw9Hf pic.twitter.com/OjfwZe4pWI

— The Anglican Church in St Petersburg (@anglicanspb) March 8, 2024

The cathedral had hoped for some years to give Austen a fitting tribute as a sculpture, Dean Ogle said. “The opportunity has now arisen with a significant number of private donors and small grant providers keen to see in place the splendid and sensitive design by the acclaimed sculptor Martin Jennings. These funds are restricted by the donors to this project only.

“We recognise that, at a time of cost inflation for so many people, of anxiety about the future, and conflict in society, the idea of bringing to fruition a statue of arguably Britain’s greatest literary figure could be seen as frivolous. Funding for the arts, be it for sculpture or any other medium, is always open to question, which we understand.

“However, with the enthusiastic support of our private donors and the wider benefit it will bring to Winchester, Hampshire, and many of the Austen fans nationally and worldwide, we consider this project should proceed.”

Read it all.

Winchester Cathedral has revealed the preliminary design of a proposed statue of Jane Austen, commissioned from the figurative sculptor Martin Jennings, to mark the 250th anniversary in 2025 of the novelist’s birth https://t.co/IcWSRjmVlv

— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) March 5, 2024

Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,
To thee of all kings only due)
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,
Who in all grief preventest me?
Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store
That all thy body was one door.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?
‘Tis but to tell the tale is told.
‘My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? ‘
Was such a grief as cannot be.
But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copy thy fair, though bloody hand?
Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And try who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore
All back unto thee by the poor.
If thou dost give me honour, men shall see,
The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or, if she be mine,
She and her children shall be thine.
My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name,
I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some Chapel, die or live.
As for thy passion – But of that anon,
When with the other I have done.
For thy predestination I’ll contrive,
That three years hence, if I survive,
I’ll build a spittle, or mend common ways,
But mend mine own without delays.
Then I will use the works of thy creation,
As if I us’d them but for fashion.
The world and I will quarrel; and the year
Shall not perceive, that I am here.
My music shall find thee, and ev’ry string
Shall have his attribute to sing;
That all together may accord in thee,
And prove one God, one harmony.
If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear;
If thou hast giv’n it me, ’tis here.
Nay, I will read thy book, and never move
Till I have found therein thy love;
Thy art of love, which I’ll turn back on thee,
O my dear Saviour, Victory!
Then for thy passion – I will do for that –
Alas, my God, I know not what.

–George Herbert (1593-1633)

Remembering George Herbert #otd: Anglican priest, poet, and a beacon of faith and devotion. His legacy as a master of metaphysical poetry and a devoted servant of God reminds us of the beauty in humility and the power of words to express the divine. #GeorgeHerbert pic.twitter.com/b6sbME28Zp

— University Church (@SMVOxford) February 27, 2024

“The Lord of the Rings is of course a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision”. So wrote its author, J. R. R. Tolkien, in a 1953 private letter as his magnum opus was being prepared for publication.

The extent to which Christian sensibility informs the work, however, escapes most readers. That perhaps helps to explain its enduring popularity not only in the secularised West, but in non-Christian cultures, such as that of Japan.

The gap in understanding, which this book addresses, arises partly because the narrative force of The Lord of the Rings (TLoR] engages readers of all backgrounds, and also because the overlay of Norse mythological elements distracts them. Holly Ordway’s reading of TLoR in dialogue with Tolkien’s documented spirituality, however, clarifies the picture.

Read it all.

“The extent to which #Tolkien’s Christian sensibility informs #LordOfTheRings escapes most readers”.

My review of @HollyOrdway TOLKIEN’S FAITH: A SPIRITUAL BIOGRAPHY (@WordOnFire ) in @ChurchTimes today.https://t.co/fTdiH0GIkU

— Alex Faludy (@AlexanderFaludy) February 16, 2024

I learn from this wonderful website that after Stubbs became Bishop of Truro, the carol was performed at his cathedral’s ‘Festival of Lessons and Carols’ in 1911 – Truro being the place where services of ‘Nine Lessons and Carols’ first originated at the end of the 19th century.

Read it all.

Earendel at Epiphany.

Hail Earendel,
Brightest of Angels!

It was upon these Old English words that J.R.R. Tolkien stumbled across at his desk in Oxford in 1911, and adopted Earendel for his own use.

Earendel = 'O Oriens', the Advent Antiphon sung at the Winter Solstice. pic.twitter.com/a9pHlXnK04

— Ninefold Kyrie (@Gda1238) January 9, 2024

Imagine the kings, the caravans’ stilted procession
As they make for the cave, or, rather, three beams closing in
And in on the star, the creaking of loads, the clink of a cowbell;
(No thronging of Heaven as yet, no peal of the bell

That will ring in the end for the infant once he has earned it).
Imagine the Lord, for the first time, from darkness, and stranded
Immensely in distance, recognizing Himself in the Son
Of Man: His homelessness plain to him now in a homeless one.

Read it all.

Anonim după / Anonymus after
Rafael Sanzio de Urbino (1483-1520)
The Adoration of the Magi
16th century
Oil on canvas
Nostalgie. Amintire. Regăsire. Peisajul european și ruina în secolele XVI-XIX | Muzeul Național de Artă al României, Bucureștihttps://t.co/iH6Mf1pOd9 pic.twitter.com/1774sLInAB

— madalina potinc (@madalinapotinc) August 3, 2022

In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than
to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain,
a child was born in a cave in order to save the world;
it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart….

Read it all.

Se pone entre tus manos el precio de nuestra salvación /Adorazione dei Magi (detalle), Cesare di Sesto. pic.twitter.com/JZr7V6rczC

— Paulo Medina (@goya1881) November 7, 2017

It might have been just someone else’s story,
Some chosen people get a special king.
We leave them to their own peculiar glory,
We don’t belong, it doesn’t mean a thing.
But when these three arrive they bring us with them….

Read it all.

Francisco de Zubaran ( 1598-1664 ) Adoration of the Magi 1639 pic.twitter.com/Kj7qHA0hIq

— BrindusaB (@BrindusaB1) January 6, 2024

Listen to and ponder it all–more than once.

You may find the full text there (note that the audio is TS Eliot himself reading the poem).

Follow the star to the feast of the Epiphany on 6th January!

BL Add MS 37472, f.r @BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/mXuszwSUKa

— Ennius (@red_loeb) January 5, 2024

How could they have known not to come
On what amounted to pretense? Everything
Their learning held, all their beliefs
Said regal gifts were needful for a king.

The things they brought were left behind,
Doubtless; or maybe traded for bread:
Impecunious Joseph with a family
To feed, a roof to put over his head.

Read it all.

Follow the star to the feast of the Epiphany on 6th January!

BL Add MS 37472, f.r @BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/mXuszwSUKa

— Ennius (@red_loeb) January 5, 2024

The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week —
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted — quite unsuccessfully —
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off.

Read it all (my emphasis).

Gloria in eccelsis deo, cries the angel silently. Stolen by the mafia in 1969, never recovered, alas! Caravaggio's late great Adoration of the shepherds. pic.twitter.com/KHMl5jeuxh

— Dr. Peter Paul Rubens (@PP_Rubens) December 26, 2023

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Christmas time. Peter Paul Rubens, The Adoration of the Magi, 1628-1629. #galeriamiguelnabinho #christmastime pic.twitter.com/fwOxdT0YxO

— Miguel Nabinho (@miguelnabinho) December 26, 2023

My own feeling is that writers who see by the light of their Christian faith will have, in these times, the sharpest eyes for the grotesque, for the perverse, and for the unacceptable. In some cases, these writers may be unconsciously infected with the Manichaean spirit of the times and suffer the much-discussed disjunction between sensibility and belief, but I think that more often the reason for this attention to the perverse is the difference between their beliefs and the beliefs of their audience. Redemption is meaningless unless there is case for it in the actual life we live, and for the last few centuries there has been operating in our culture the secular belief that there is no such cause.

The novelist with Christian concerns will find in modern life distortions which are repugnant to him, and his problem will be to make these appear as distortions to an audience which is used to seeing them as natural; and he may well be forced to take ever more violent means to get his vision across to this hostile audience. When you can assume that your audience holds the same beliefs as you do, you can relax a little and use more normal means of talking to it; when you have to assume that it does not, then you have to make your vision apparent by shock, to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind, you draw large and startling figures.

—Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1969) pp. 33-34 [my emphasis]

Merry Christmas to all!!!

“The Nativity” (1776-1777) by John Singleton Copley pic.twitter.com/KEdKgL3OLD

— Isabel Azar (@izzyroseazar) December 26, 2021

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”

And he replied:
“Go out into the darkness and
put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light
and safer than a known way.”

So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.
And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

Read it all. An excerpt from this poem was famously read by King George VI in his 1939 Christmas broadcast. For more about the author of the poem please read this.

Happy new year! Here is a page from the Sherborne missal open at Epiphany – complete with the adoration of the magi, assorted animals, and an abbot. I particularly like Mary and child in the middle of the page. #medievalmonday #manuscriptmonday pic.twitter.com/FYPxeLyY4P

— Dr Naomi (@BooksTeaFilms) January 1, 2024

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are

Read it all.

🎆 Charting to the New Year with anchor-sized ambitions and the wind of possibilities at our backs. May your 2024 be as epic as a naval fleet on the high seas! 🌊⚓ #NavalNewYear #SetSailForSuccess pic.twitter.com/4u08oPUJa0

— U.S. Navy (@USNavy) January 1, 2024

Then came, at a predetermined moment, a moment in time
and of time,
A moment not out of time, but in time, in what we call history:
transecting, bisecting the world of time,
a moment in time but not like a moment of time,
A moment in time but time was made through that moment:
for without the meaning there is no time,
and that moment of time gave the meaning.

—T.S. Eliot, Choruses from “The Rock”, VII, as found for example there (page 107).

Sandro Botticelli, The Nativity of Christ (Mystic Nativity), 1501, Oil on canvas, 11/21/23 #legionofhonor pic.twitter.com/YVo90CUW1M

— Sharon Mollerus (@clairity_org) December 24, 2023

Twas much,
that man was
made like God before,
But that God should
be like man
much more

–John Donne (1572-1631)

Christmas in The Shire

Art by alexsundoor_art on Instagram pic.twitter.com/vc4IT2Zlel

— The Mellon Heads – TOLKIEN Podcast🎙 (@mellon_heads) December 28, 2023