Hosea, the 8th century BC Hebrew prophet, wrote,
"Mercy" is defined as "compassion or forgiveness shown towards someone it is within your power to punish or harm."
It is a time of the world when mercy seems scarce. Those in power, or those filching power by threatening the wellbeing of another with threat of violence, perhaps, feel it suggests weakness to promulgate peace and mercy.
Is this part of the evolution of understanding men have regarding God -- the movement from sacrificial death to compassionate life?
Sitting in a room with someone dying one does not think of punishment or harm. Rather, the wish for peaceful transition and arrival home -- however that translates into here into now.
In the novel The Sparrow by Mary Doris Russell, there is a description of a conversation following the question, "Do you experience God?"
I leave hospice room with questions for God, uncertain where to pose them.
I bow to my companioned sister with whom I've sat these four hours -- diminishing energy sometimes restless, sometimes resting, now still and quiet at dusk.
I wonder how we have managed to formulate the inscrutably-beyond with such narrative certainty of nothing to hold on to.
Nothing, that is, but trust. And that trust? One steeped in unverifiable presence. Longing chastened by soundless stillness.
I drive in silence most of the way northeast.
"...since what I want is love, not sacrifice; knowledge of God, not holocausts." (Hosea 5)
A commentator added:
God did not seek sacrifices and holocausts, but faith, and obedience, and righteousness, for the sake of their salvation. As God said, teaching his will through Hosea the prophet, What I want is love, not sacrifice; knowledge of God, not holocausts. Our Lord taught the same, saying If you had understood the meaning of the words: What I want is mercy, not sacrifice, you would not have condemned the blameless. Thus he bore witness to the truth of the prophets’ teachings while convicting the people of culpable folly.
(--from, Irenaeus, Against the Heresies, Office of Readings, Saturday 12aug17)We seem to be caught between sacrifice and holocaust. We seem estranged from mercy and knowledge.
"Mercy" is defined as "compassion or forgiveness shown towards someone it is within your power to punish or harm."
It is a time of the world when mercy seems scarce. Those in power, or those filching power by threatening the wellbeing of another with threat of violence, perhaps, feel it suggests weakness to promulgate peace and mercy.
Is this part of the evolution of understanding men have regarding God -- the movement from sacrificial death to compassionate life?
Sitting in a room with someone dying one does not think of punishment or harm. Rather, the wish for peaceful transition and arrival home -- however that translates into here into now.
In the novel The Sparrow by Mary Doris Russell, there is a description of a conversation following the question, "Do you experience God?"
John responds, "Not directly. Not as a friend or a personality, I suppose." John examined himself. "Not, I think, even 'in a tiny whispering sound.'" He watched the flames for a while. "I would have to say that I find God in serving His children. 'For I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you cared for me, imprisoned and you came to me.'"
The words lingered in the air as the fire popped and hissed softly. Sandoz had stopped pacing and stood motionless in a far corner of the room, his face in shadows, firelight glittering on the metallic exoskeletons of his hands. "Don't hope for more than that, John," he said. "God will break your heart." And then he left.Good words. Haunting words.
(--p. 50)
I leave hospice room with questions for God, uncertain where to pose them.
I bow to my companioned sister with whom I've sat these four hours -- diminishing energy sometimes restless, sometimes resting, now still and quiet at dusk.
I wonder how we have managed to formulate the inscrutably-beyond with such narrative certainty of nothing to hold on to.
Nothing, that is, but trust. And that trust? One steeped in unverifiable presence. Longing chastened by soundless stillness.
I drive in silence most of the way northeast.
