We can talk about motherhood. We can talk about the Gospel. But both stand beyond talking, beyond words. They’re a dying in living, a dying to live.
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.