Whatever else sin is, it is always a forgetting that we are loved by God. And the more we sin, the more we forget.
Louise Glück’s poem, “Wild Iris,” begins with a description of death, the sort of death something made of earth and growing there might recount if it could speak.
While God the Father did not will the death of the Son, we can still ask why the Father permitted it. The answer lies in the act of our creation.
Christ goes to his death insisting that his life has meaning. When and how he will die can be left to speculation but not so why he dies.
In the cross of Christ, God sunders God’s self to draw us and those whom we love into God’s life, which is pure relationship, a love that precedes existence.