It is the Holy Week. Let us think of the tragedy of the Cross, which is the triumph of God. The altar and ornaments of religion are once more veiled in purple. The shadow of man’s dullness and sin hides the glory of God.
In what does the tragedy of God’s passion consist?
Of this, that God loves his world, and the world will not accept that love. He is in the world, and the world know him not. He comes to his own, who receive him not. You and I know, a little, what it means to offer our love, selflessly, and to find that those we love do not heed-are too occupied with lesser things to care. That which is true of our imperfect loving, and rejection, is infinitely true of God’s perfect loving, and our rejection of him.
The world seems cold to men today, harsh, cruel, devoid of inner peace. We are fretful, afraid, more than a little mad. Life means nothing unless behind all, and beneath us, is One who loves. He does care, and we avoid him. The punishment is ours, and the heartbreak his.
— Bernard Iddings Bell, The Holy Week