Tuesday, December 18, 2012

"But at the coming of the King of Heaven...."

When the basiliea tou theou comes, it will not come by force, or politics; but neither will it come by force.  It will come by change; by the willful and deliberate recognition of justice and peace.  And it will be a day of destruction for the powers of this world.

We have bought with our entire national soul the notion that the sale of anything legal in this country exists in a morality-free zone that protects the product from the consequences of its use. But that formulation broke down on tobacco. It can break down on guns. Too much of our entire national economy is based on violence — physical violence, emotional violence, environmental violence, economic violence — and there is too much profit to be made out of the production of violence. You want the violence to stop, break the people who are getting rich off it. Break their fortunes and you can break their power. The money comes first. It always does.
The world will provide the violence. As at first, that may be yet again a sign of what is to come, and why it is so necessary. Not that it should be; not that it is a necessity; but simply because that's the way the world chooses to be.  Because the basiliea tou theou is not about peace first; first it is about justice.  And the powers of the world that will be cast off their thrones will not go quietly.  But we are charged with making them go.  We are charged with breaking their fortunes, and their power.  Not through force; but through love.  And we have to break their fortunes, or we will ever have to live with their power:

Whose that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Lying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

What where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double talking:

Herod is his name.

--Charles Causley

It can even begin with through our love for our children.  Even our children who are not slaughtered like lambs, like innocents.  We can do this.  We can stop this.  No one else has to die.  And we don't have to live this way.  We don't have to accept that the world must be this way.  Because it doesn't have to be this way.  We don't have to be hostages to fortunes.

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