![]() ![]() Each window tells a story about the creation of the world, the meaning of history, the purpose of life, the nature of humankind, the mystery of death. Some are abstract, others representational some dark and meditative, others bright and dazzling. In the Cathedral of the World there are windows without number, some long forgotten, covered with many patinas of grime, others revered by millions, the most sacred of shrines. Not a moment passes without the dreams of long-dead dreamers being outstripped, shattered, or abandoned, giving way to new visions, each immortal in reach, ephemeral in grasp.Ībove all else, contemplate the windows. Untold numbers of these collect dust in long-undisturbed chambers others (cast centuries or eons ago from their once-respected places) lie shattered in chards or ground into powder on the cathedral floor. Throughout human history, one generation after another has labored lovingly, sometimes fearfully, crafting memorials and consecrating shrines. Not a moment passes without work being begun that shall not be finished in the lifetime of the architects who planned it, the patrons who paid for it, the builders who construct it, or the expectant worshippers. The builders have worked from time immemorial, destroying and creating, confounding and perfecting, tearing down and raising up arches in this cathedral, buttresses and chapels, organs and theaters, chancels and transepts, gargoyles, idols, and icons. Search for a lifetime (which is all you are surely given) and you shall not know its limits, visit all its transepts, worship at its myriad shrines, nor span its celestial ceiling with your gaze. This cathedral is as ancient as humankind, its cornerstone the first altar, marked with the tincture of blood and stained with tears. Awakening to the call stirring deep within you, the call of life itself-the call of God-you begin your pilgrimage.īefore you do, look about you contemplate the mystery and contemplate with awe. Not that you know what to do with your gift, or even what it really means, only how much it matters. But when they do, what you took for granted before is presented as a gift: difficult, yet precious and good. Such awakenings may happen only once in a lifetime, or many times. A new awakening, it consecrates your life with sacraments of pain you do not understand and promised joy you will never fully call your own. This second birth, at once miraculous and natural, is in some ways not unlike the first. It is a world of light and dancing shadow, stone and glass, life and death. Like a child newborn, untutored save to moisture, nurture, rhythm, and the profound comforts at the heart of darkness, you open your eyes upon a world unseen, indeed unimaginable, before. Imagine awaking one morning from a deep and dreamless sleep to find yourself in the nave of a vast cathedral. Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press, Boston.
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