There is no damping of betrayal’s guilt, The little deeds of virtue cannot serve; They niggle at the structures time has built, Unwilling to admit what they deserve. Even the grasping at the words of grace: "Come unto me, and I will give you rest,” Become the tempter’s taunt, thrown in your face, Counting betrayals of this fair behest. And still it comes, this welcome to the feast, Albeit shadowed with the guilt and sin; Strange Love reminds that this is freedom’s test, And given so, the grace must follow in. So there is damping of betrayal’s guilt, On Calvary, when Covenant blood was spilt.
As soon as you hear the title, you can probably guess what kind of film The Book of Eli is going to be. Yes, it is the story about a man named Eli (played by Denzel Washington, who is also one of the film’s producers), who has a book; it is also about the Bible, which in this case seems to provide not a set of beliefs but simply the hope that humanity has a future.
Things go unnoticed around here while we do the important stuff the singing praying sermonizing baptizing. We don’t read the instructions want to get on with it insert the batteries push the button watch the screen light up. Script stage directions steps one two three are all fine print we think, or don’t until we find ourselves at home watching rain soak the garden and notice that the screen has gone dark. When is it that we turn to face the back of the church? Do we stand or sit at the Psalm and is there anything at all about bowing as the cross makes its leisurely progress? What words are to be said while earth is cast upon the coffin and who was it after all who was supposed to meet the body
It was the holy part of the day, my loved ones asleep in other countries, me with no duties and rooms full of quiet. I ate my dark bread with brie and jam, pressed out two cups of dark coffee. And that must be the sun, skulking like a grown-up boy who knows it’s been too long since he visited his mother. He has no excuse but all is forgiven, she will open the curtains, haul up the shades, crack the windows though it’s far too cold for that. We will ring all the bells in the quiet church across the street, unscrew the doors from the jambs, dismantle all the borders, forgive the Russians whether they like it or not. And mercy will pour down like sunshine in the grand photographs in the vast inscrutable book I bought for ten euros at the bookstore downtown, a store full of books translated out of the language I know so that I could read only the authors’ names. Truth must be personal, said Kierkegaard, home from another of his long, brooding walks. And yet not merely private. You shall love the neighbor, he insisted. Outside my window the church is solid and pale, three stories and a squat round tower, in the tower three narrow windows that reveal nothing. Winter sun warms the green roof, but the entrance is still in shadow.
Ten refugees have been selected to compete in the Summer Olympics in Brazil this year. Five of them are runners from South Sudan who have been living in Kakuma, a refugee camp in Kenya. The Sudanese will be joined by two Congolese judo fighters, two Syrian swimmers, and an Ethiopian marathoner. Anjelina Nadai, one of the Sudanese runners, said she first started running while tending her family’s cows. She discovered she could get to the cows in half the time by running instead of walking. These athletes will compete under the Olympic flag, not that of any nation. If any of them should win a medal, the Olympic theme song will be played (The Christian Science Monitor, June 3).