The loveliest dreamscapes woven by an infants fingers play worlds into being, somewhat true in place of voids, and makes happen hope’s horizon giving strength to weak men whilst thinkers grasping at the transcendent fail.
Little, silly infant: he frolics in the dear inestimable mystery and sees into objects of sense so ordinary and so lovely, making enigmatic pictures older than confessions, but which such nonsense must live to remind greater minds that notions like God and Spirit and soul, are making words to say the unstayable hands to touch, neigh grasp the untouchable, that all this happen to bring into now, to mundane, poor moment, all that was and is and is to come.
Not a deliberate idolatry, the Churchman’s pretensions, to gainsay the child’s own hallowed sweet night and draw its gardens and castles and stars into its own stolid sense. Though it may still betray it if it knows not its own tendency to hubris. But what else is there? Religion is a poor and dogeared thing, a verbal self deception speaking of God to sidestep God, and the theologian and the philosopher’s words, such a cornucopia of complexifying signs, are a great contribution. Language gloriously spinning out its self love, in enigmatic unintelligibility, floating over the head of common faith lighting him little and telling her less.
But still, but still. The night cometh quickly and it is most dark, I am fearful and wanting of comfort, and even if its ordered sterilisation of charisma, metered music and ritualised neutering, be so wretched, yet this bequeathment to our oh so dry, techno-dry, quotidian days, is a body made of God’s bleeding flesh, and the incomprehensible confidence of many a martyrs’ sacrifice. So tis at least some poor, last refuge.
Yet sometimes still, when the many words go quiet, as I hold my little hands out, I receive without even asking, an old sweet sense to transfigure the moment, so familiar and thanks be, it has not gone: the inspired infants foolishness so magnificent has again made beautiful life’s little day.