England, England

Kathryn over at Good in Parts has been making me cry with her last few posts about her ordination. Her language is poetic and yet concrete; her stories so full of God's presence. I often find myself longing for that palpable sense of blessing, longing to know that what I believe in and what I worship is real-- for God to turn up, as she puts it.

And tonight she has me crying again (please, Kathryn, start posting about knitting or casseroles or head colds!) with a passage from Peter Abelard: A Novel that she's offering in light of the attacks in London this morning. Who knew that the pain of the world could be explained so simply, with a dead rabbit and a fallen tree?

God as fellow sufferer doesn't always make sense to me. If God is greater than us, why can't she stop pain and death and evil in their tracks? But a suffering God makes more sense than a God who doesn't suffer, who doesn't stop our suffering because it doesn't touch her.

Just as I have to believe in God, I have to believe God's mourning with the world tonight over all its aches and griefs. Even though she feels so very far away.