Fast Words From The IOC

The IOC is the biggest joke. Let's condemn Bolt for his "antics"; how they are not a measure of respect for his competitors. It typical behavior from people who don't understand the true nature of competition. Yes, it's my whole Larry Bird school of sports, even on the largest stage. But I tire of the "why didn't he shake hands?" or "why did he parade around the track screaming he was number 1?" criticism when it's a simple answer. It was his moment. He worked to achieve it. He worked and ran to stand alone. Let him. (And by the way, that 200M run was amazing. Into a headwind?)

Is he a better person if he shakes hands and goes on about with his antics? Maybe. Is he a worse person because he did not? No. He just shattered an virtually unbreakable world record. Give him his moment.

No. The IOC must condemn. Olympics! Higher, Faster, Stronger! Shake Hands! Do Not Focus On Enjoying Winning! Hug! Move On! London 2012! Get Rid Of Softball! Badminton Doubles But No Olympic Golf! The Chinese Are Democratic Afterall! No Human Rights Injustice! Fake Fireworks Are Cool! Lipsynching Is The New Steroid! Sports Are Not Really Sports Unless We Have Judges Who Have Never Competed In The Sports Judging The Sports!

Oh, and all this is coming out of one side of the IOC's mouth. Here's what they're not addressing.

On Phelps

So the Mrs. was working Saturday night in the ER. A little boy, about 8 comes in. They put him in a room. He complains loudly. Not because of the ailment, but because there was no T.V. in that particular room. He was scared he couldn't watch Phelps win gold. Then the Mrs. started talking to him about the races. This kid, 8 years old, then came back with the awesomeness that was that 100M Butterfly finish. About how he took that last half-stroke. About how he touched the wall an infinite minuteness before the other guy. The Mrs. said his facing was beaming.

That's why I love the Olympics. I worked at them in '02; been there, done that. I didn't enjoy the Olympics that year. Though I saw every event and heard the finishes and stood directly next to the take-off point for the Gold Medal ski-jump (a hill I later slid down) -- I even rode the lift back up the mountain with the jumpers (I had all access passes for the ski jump and luge). I even saw a moose. But it wasn't the same. And until Phelps' run, my Olympic awe had been spoiled by everything wrong the the Games. Then the Mrs. told me the story and I remembered my own story and I remembered why I love the Games:

In '02 Jimmy Shea made an improbable run at Gold in the Men's Skeleton I was working down the hill from the track in the Media Compound (I could see the finish area from where we were located). The place was brimming with buzz. Everyone was walking up to see the final run. But the peon that I was, I had to stay put in the trailer in case something was needed. So me and a few other peons were forced to watch it on a small T.V. We couldn't even walk across the compound to the Japanese Trailer that had HD. But as he was coming down we began to hear the roar. Instead of watching it, I walked outside and listened to it. Coming down the mountain. A load, ominous, snow-echoing roar. I started screaming in my solitude for Shea. Screaming for him to win. I knew the second he did. I could hear it. I still can.

I heard the roars when Phelps won every medal. That something great and grand was going on. I felt connected, hearing the story hours later, with that little boy in the hospital sick at not being able to watch it. We don't know if did get to see the final race. Though I'm sure, I'm positive, he heard it.

The Problem Of The Dark Knight

Much has been said about this movie. It's darkness, it's performances, it's awesomeness. I loved the movie. Loved every second of every minute. It, at times, brought out the child in me. The fist-pumping, adrenaline-rushing, beat-the-bad-guys child in me. If you have not seen it, you should, just as an exercise in why movies can be cool.

Ledger's performance was good, perhaps even great. He did not supersede any previous interpretation of the Joker, he merely brought his own to the role. Embodied it in his own way. Whatever you read about the excellence he called upon, his Joker is worthy of the approbation. And if the Joker never appears on screen again, it may very well be because it never needs to. And while I liked Ledger, I still stand by Nicholson who was vastly different in his approach. While Ledger nailed every mannerism, every dark nuance of the character that could manifest itself physically did (especially the tongue flickering), the villain lacked swagger. Nicholson gave the Joker that villainous swagger, an arrogance, a propensity for narcissism and evil. Ledger's Joker was vastly dark but I perceived him as a lightweight. Just because he kills coldly and without pretense does not necessarily make him a worthy adversary -- though I concede he was to Batman. Ledger's Joker lacked some weight, some material, physical swagger that precedes him in the moments before he appears on screen. With Nicholson, you felt the Joker coming before he appeared. I didn't get that with Ledger. Still good though, perhaps Oscar worthy too.

If you've seen it, you've seen the darkness of the film. It's strength. It's brilliance of it's characters. It's non-plot plot. The problem of evil. It was at the forefront of the movie and it cannot be ignored. It's also at the forefront of life around us. The movie did well to incorporate the goodness of mankind, even in small amounts as a necessary adversary, as the true rival of the evil. I compare the problem of evil in this movie to the problem of good in another movie I just watched: Lars and the Real Girl. For that entire film I wanted, expected, anticipated the proclivity man has for evil to show itself. But it never did. That movie was all about the problem of good. It believed in the goodness of people in large amounts. I highly recommend Lars and the Real Girl. It is utterly moving.

Now The Dark Knight believed in it too. And perhaps, in the small amounts we saw we came away with the notion that goodness, even as small of a grain of sand, can combat and overturn and right the largest amounts of evil.

One other thing, I tire of ketch phrases. Perhaps that's the staple of comic books, but the "he's more than a hero" sounds more like a Nickelback lyric than good writing.

A Quote In August

"The evocation of far is a peaceful corridor paved with unflagging and tranquil faith and peopled with kind and nameless faces and voices."

William Faulkner, Light in August

Magical Reality T.V.

In anticipation of my reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, I, in my research, have looked up the term magical realism, which plays a large role in this novel. I'm not sure I entirely grasp the concept-- though I liken it to the technique in Scrubs. Perhaps it's because such things, especially in literature, never seem to strike me as odd or difficult or anything apart from reality. So to categorize it muddies my understanding of its sequellas.

And I am serious: if I should run into a unicorn while on walk, I would not be the least bit surprised. If a lamppost should turn into an elephant, I would not be surprised. If both daylight and night grow longer but the day length remains the same, I would not be surprised.

Suppose for a second that a reality television producer, fresh of his latest success of putting 6 animals (lion, zebra, fly, monkey, dog, cat) and 3 Hot People in a house for 10 weeks and allowing America to vote each one off based on a serious of challenges that involves, but is not limited to, surviving, decides to further push the limits. He or she pitches the concept of magical realism in this fashion. Assembled would be Chewbacca, Frodo, a Gummi Bear, Captain Kirk, Hari Seldon, and three randomly selected Americans who are extremely good-looking and who also think they can dance. Let the mayhem ensue!

Magical Reality T.V. : One Ring, In a Galaxy Far, Far Away, Bouncing Here and There And Everywhere, Boldly Going Where No Man Has Gone Before, uh Who's Hari Seldon? And The Hottest Contests Ever To Be See Dancing On T.V.! This Thursday @ 9pm.

Garcia Marquez would be proud.

Twenty-One, Some 50 Years Later

In lieu of my dirge on How To Read A Book, I stumbled across a piece by one of its authors, Charles Van Doren. His personage, ever since I saw Redford's "Quiz Show", has fascinated me. I am persuaded that it wasn't the pursuit of fame or greed that brought on his fall. But it was something in him, and for that he sought to make it right. I am always glad I convinced my father to rent that movie years ago.

Anyway, he penned a piece for The New Yorker recently about the saga. Can't say life has changed much with the infusion of reality television. It's greatest loss, however, has been the person of character.

On Biting The Hand... And Legs... And Face

It's perhaps our first violent instinct. Our first weapon. Our first acts of a malevolent nature: biting.

That Isaac has started biting has fueled my curiosity (Literally, at times, the hand that is feeding him). Why is this the case?

In thinking about it I have not come to take lightly now the Biblical story of Adam and Eve taking a bite of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. There is present the immediate act of disobedience. The Fall of Man most certainly occurred the moment the fruit was pierced. It was the first physical, violent act of the rebellion.

I find the association between Isaac's recent behavior and the most primal of stories our mankind's rebellion all curious and interesting.

A Sandwich For U

Perhaps the best sandwich I've ever had. Up there with the Bacon Turkey Bravo (man I love that sandwich and yes I am still a man for eating at Panera). Also, Eric, my sandwich won't leave you hungry afterwards.

2 slices of Whole Wheat Bread

Dijon Mustard

1 slice Pepper Jack Cheese

2 slices of Deli Turkey

3 slices of Salami

2-3 pieces of Bacon (4 if you want a piece to nibble on)

1 Kosher dill pickle, thinly sliced.

Garlic powder

Olive Oil

Onion Powder

Now here's the important part. I'm a firm believer that sandwich ingredients must be placed in the correct order to maximize the flavor of each. So this is of the utmost for the supreme enjoyment of this sandwich.

Spread the Dijon over the slices of bread. On one slice of bread place the Pepper Jack cheese. On the other place the pickle, diagonally across the slice. Place a slice of turkey on both pieces of bread. On top of that, on one side, place 2 pieces of salami, on the other place the final piece of the salami. Break the bacon so that you can lay it horizontally across the bread. Combine both pieces of your sandwich.

Heat up a skillet and in it place a liberal amount of olive oil. Add some garlic and onion powder and mix the oil around the pan. When it is nice and hot, place the bread into the skillet and oil. Fry to golden brown and flip to other side, toasting also to a golden brown. Press down on both sides as it is cooking to effectively squish the sandwich.

Eat and enjoy. I had two last night.

I woke up this morning wanting it again. At 6am. It is very good. I may call it The Q. Without the u because there's no sharing this sandwich.

Maybe I should call it something else.

The Letter Q

It's a fascinating letter. For starters, it always must be followed by another letter. It's contingent letter. Parasitic. A letter who's existence is permissible only by the inclusion of another letter. That's fascinating. Sure, there are words with q without u. But a cursory look shows that they are either obsolete spellings or foreign words taken a slight hold in the English language. Negligible at best.

It does have some proper function. There's the disputed Q document. Also, my favorite Star Trek character went by Q.

Q represents an interesting conundrum. Could it exist without U? Can humanity survive? Will we function without a U? We work well with silent letters. We work well with c sounding like k; g sounding like j. I think we could maintain our morality if we took away the U. But I am not a philologist. It's not up to me. Life will go on as it always has: with the U next to the Q.

Some of my favorite Q words in order:

1. Quixotic -- How often to you get and x and q in the same word. Not often. Plus it looks like it means. How often do you get that.

2. Quotidian -- Another word with an odd look about it. Ironic in it's meaning with relation to it's appearance.

3. Quantum -- The double U. It's a sleek looking work. Sounds great too.

4. Quasi -- Looks odd. Lots of vowels. And it sounds like there's a z in there. There's not. But it seems like there should be.

5. Quagmire -- Sounds thick. Heavy to say. Not too tough on the eyes though.

Honorable Mention:

Querulous -- Triple U!!! More vowels than we can count. How can we complain about this word?

Syntopical Syncretism

Call it the post-modern approach to reading, but I've been diligent recently in my approach to reading. I came across the former of the above terms while reading Mortimer Adler's How To Read A Book. Vaguely, it's about moving one's reading across like themes. It's a unique idea and I recommend it and the original book.

Now I've extended this in several ways. First I have tried to read books similar in writing style. This is one reason for my recent love of Catholic writers of the 40s, 50s and 60s. Barth, Bellows and Updike are also more alike in style than the themes of their novels belie.

Another way I've enacted Adler's idea is by researching the influences of authors I'm reading. Just yesterday I began to look into Umberto Eco's greatest influence, Jorge Luis Borges. He's quite a fantastical and unique and challenging writer. For O'Connor I've delved into Faulkner and read up on Hawthorne.

By doing this I've stumbled across another term: syncretism. O'Connor and Faulkner posses widely different world views. Borges and one of his more profound influences, Chesterton, differ exponentially in their respective world views. Not that I am trying to reconcile these authors but it's certainly challenging to recognize the different approach that is at once alike and different. Like seeing an object from all sides simultaneously and managing to maintain a sense of wonder about it.

Pretty sure none of this makes sense, that it's just ramblings. I'm piecing the idea slowly together. Combining it and, at times, justifying it I suppose. The bottom line is that I notice I am drawn to the syntopical syncretism in Art. From Springsteen to O'Connor, Borges to Chesterton.

Not sure if Adler had this in mind, but I have him to thank for issuing that first challenge.

Raising Kids: A Divine Comedy

You want to instill in your children certain things. You want them to possess good manners, morals, a sense of perspective. You want them to be well-rounded and read; athletic, mature, smart and be good. You want them to love God. You want them to love others. You want them to honor and respect everything and everyone in the creation around them. You also want them to be funny. At the very least, not un-funny.

But how do you foster humor in a child?

Kids have a sense of the funny already. I think it's because they see things simply. Not in satire, not in nuance or entendre. Not in sarcasm or in wit. Things are funny in and of themselves. Of course they do things that are funny unintentionally. Call it the comedy of omission. I've got nephew stories to prove it right now. A co-worker has kid stories that top those.

Their sense of what's funny, their appreciation of intentional comedy progresses. And it starts at the slapstick stage, which perhaps, if you're a fan of the Stooges, stays with us no matter what (I contend that walking into a wall is at all times, by everyone considered funny). This is where Isaac is at currently. Yesterday he stood on the ottoman, pretended to lose his balance and fall headlong onto the chair and back for 20 minutes. He laughed hysterically the entire time. So did I. Then there's this.

But I really do think it's because they see things simply. Everything is new and amazing. Being able to grab a toy or ask for the tooth brush is a grand achievement. A sense of the wow permeates it. So it is with humor. That Isaac walks into the table and laughs while we cringe delineates our current world views. Exactly what his is I have not an inkling. But I know he talked to himself on the way to the sitter this morning breaking in with uncontrollable laughter. He gets the punchline. It's simple and it's funny. And a child's laughter, unadulterated, is easily the simplest, purest and most breathtaking joy imaginable.

Missing: 33 Pages

So I'm in the midst of a book the other night when I turn the page. The proceeding sentence makes no sense. Maybe I missed something. I did not. It still doesn't make any sense. Turns out (ha!) that the next page is not in fact the next page but some 33 pages into the book's future. A quite unfortunate turn of events that required me to start a completely new book. Seriously, who just removes 33 pages? Because they were removed; no obvious tearing, fraying, just meticulously extricated from the book.

So I'm looking for 33 pages. From 120 to 153. Love in the Ruins. If anyone's seen them.

But hey, at least I'm not missing this.

A Room With A View

Do scientists get excited about a movie that gets science right? A movie or book on the Uncertainty Principle? Do they applaud it? Give a resounding "Yes" and a golf hi-five? What about people who work in cafeterias? Are they thrilled when an art form gets their job right? Were glove manufacturers excited about American Pastoral?

It behooves the artist to get these things right. It substantiates their work while reverberating to the job or task or hobby itself. It illumines all.

Now I get excited when God is mentioned and mentioned correctly. Not pigeon-holed or hyberbolied or stereotyped. But mentioned with a sort of awe and enthusiasm and appreciation and respect. I get quite excited about correct theology in literature, film, song, poem.

Here's the thing about artists: they build houses with their materials. Rooms, hallways, stairwells, kitchens of words, lyric, song, shot. They set it all up and have an open house. I'm in the field, maybe nearby, staring up at the clearest and most open of skies. The sun is shining and I could never be warmer or cooler or want of anything. So when I go into the house, it's refreshing and assuring and hopeful to have a room, with however small a window, looking out onto that same sky and warm sunshine.

Sometimes that's all you can ask for. And you'd be surprised how much light can shine.

So There's Some Uncertainty

ATOMIC PARTICLE COLLIDER COULD DESTROY WORLD.

That was the byline on cnn.com yesterday. Uh, click. Come to find out there's this particle collider, and it could destroy the world. Seems it's rather large at 17 miles across and 330 feet below the surface. Seems it cost almost $10 billion dollars. And it seems it could destroy the world. Have you heard of the Large Hadron Collider?

Needless to say I've been reading up on strangelets, micro-black holes and every other wiki accessible theory applicable out of quantum mechanics. So what are the odds the world could get sucked into a black hole or turn into a lump of steaming space poo a la Vonnegut's Ice-Nine scenario? Well, there's a nonzero chance.

What exactly is a nonzero chance? 1 in 50 million. The odds of winning the lottery. But, uh, people win the lottery. Here's another breakdown of the odds.

Of course, in a brilliant piece in the NY Times on this, there's also a chance for Don Quixote to make a return. You have to love the Uncertainty Principle.

Aside: I'm reading the NY Times article last night and what does the first line encompass? A quote from the book I'm about to read that I quoted from yesterday. It's an obscure book, so referencing it is quite random. Coincidences like that... well... it's always a little fascinating.

On Putting Down A Book

I've never been one who believed finishing a book proved something. I'm from the Costanza school. The most recent evidence to this belief was Dune, which I gave up on after 150+ pages. As a fact, there have actually been very few books I have given up, sent away to the literary bench.

Thursday I was prepared to give up on Atonement. I knew the plot (or lack there of, depending on the critic). I had seen the movie. Though that's a simple reason for abandonment, sometimes the writing pulls you in despite your objectivity. But such wasn't the case here either. I kept reading. Over the weekend I poured into 300+ pages. And I'm left with the same conclusion: I can put this book down and very much want too. It isn't particularly great. It's good. Introspective. A character study. But it's too extraneous. Too preachy and condemning. Too much prose devoid from substance. And most of all it's too long. At almost 500 pages and rather rambling around it's simple central thesis, you'd think it'd be shorter.

All of this is sufficient a reason, in my belief, to abandon the book. But why can't I? Why do I feel the need to finish this book? I want to move on. I've got another book lined up on the bookshelf, Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy, with a great opening line:

Now in these dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A. and of the Christ-forgetting Christ-haunted death-dealing Western world I came to myself in a grove of young pines and the question came to me: has it happened at last?

That's a fantastic opening line. But still I hang on to complete this book that long ago became banal. Still I hang on, not expecting any of these reason to be atoned for in the book's final pages. After the opening line of Love in the Ruins I fought every urge to keep reading. Feeling as though I was cheating something by doing that. The book, it seems, will not let me go. It's stalking me.

Actually, it's more like a song that gets stuck in your head.

Didn't know books could do that.

What Would You Do

So the Mrs. proposed a rather interesting question on a recent road trip: If you could do something else for your job, something very much different -- perhaps hinging on a regret of sorts from our youth (yes, we're that old these days!), what would it be? Now in the past, we've used this means of questioning to determine career direction. In fact, it was what first suggested to us a different career path for me (one I'm still working towards, mind you!). But in this context, current work happiness and future work happiness did not play a role. It was more simple and straightforward a proposition: What sounds cool and sounds like something you'd want to do?

My answer, to her somewhat surprise, was: work for the CIA. Of course, I'm too passive and possess the complete inability to fool anyone, so being an agent was not my intent. I supposed to her something at Langley in either the tech field or maybe even languages. Leading too my wishing I had spent more time learning languages as a youth.

And this is why the Mrs. and I work. For as much as we are different, we are alike in the cool, essential stuff. The same overarching abstract types of things govern the differences we espouse on a day-to-day basis.

The Mrs. too wished to be a translator. She figured to work in a hospital, being the person people of different cultures can turn to in a crisis. Having witnessed the compassion, comfort and strength the translators can show at her own hospital.

Of course, we went into our explanations for why we chose what we did (my reason, well, it'd be cool to say you work for the CIA. Wait! Can you say that?). I found in fascinating to think it through. To not think what you want to be doing now, but if circumstances were different, if you had taken a different step somewhere along the way, you wouldn't be entirely different than you are now, but you'd be different and doing something different. So what would that be?

Random Tidbits

So if I can't get a tan after being in the sun for 6 hours yesterday, and 12 over the past three days, there's no hope for me. None. A friend joked that Isaac had been in the womb for 9 months and he had more of a tan than I did. Sad, but true.

Isaac is saying his own name. While I don't think he identifies himself yet, the "I" association that differentiates our consciousness from animals, it's still hilarious. The other day he just kept screaming Isaac in the grocery store. I even got him saying it on the phone yesterday. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats that.

So glad the Celtics won. Banner 17. Fantastic. I am also so glad the playoffs are over. 2 month! 2 months I watched games every other night. It's been exhausting and seemingly worthless. I'm not belittling the greatness of the championship, but it felt more like winning a marathon than winning an all out sprint. The NBA. It's Fan-tastic.

Tiger's performance over the weekend: Best golf I've ever seen. Perhaps the single greatest sports performance (up there with MJ's Flu game) I've ever seen. That was worth it. As was the 9-holes I was inspired to play.

Set-up the hammock yesterday afternoon. I know I'm prone to hyperbole (especially in this post) but it's probably the most comfortable thing ever. I laid there for 20 minutes looking at the sky and rocked in the breeze.

The DVD/Surround Sound System broke. Much to my luck we are looking to get another one. Maybe we'll wait awhile. The iPod plays all our music. We don't watch many movies during the summer. I'm willing to wait. It's been sort-of nice. We'll see if I can get one on the cheap on the eBays.

And I'm reading Atonement. Apparently one of the best 100 books of the 20th Century (and slightly beyond). Not impressed so far -- nor was I with the film version. So I'm not expecting to finish it, we'll see.

Indiana Jones was terrible. Terrible. Terrible. Can't say that enough. Ugh.

One more thing: enjoy summer. Spend time outside, even just for walks. Drink cool drinks and indulge in a coffee on a cool evening. Don't be afraid to wear sweatshirts and shorts. Take the opportunities to be still -- those summer nights. Listen to the summer, it's got such nice things to say.

How Sweet, Sweet, Sweet It Really Is

There's not a lot to add. I can tell you where I was when the Celtic's drafted Paul Pierce and how I hugged Hep. Where I was when Reggie collapsed. How 15 wins sounded on the radio during the M.L. Carr year. The sound of Pitino's whining that quickly drowned the excitement he gave us that opening night against the 72-win Bulls. My confusion after last year's draft when we traded for Ray Allen. My downright, soul-shaking joy when we traded for Garnett weeks later. I can tell you, I can tell you, I can tell you.

There was much joy in my household last night. Phone calls were exchanged. Screaming. Chills. Quiet. More screaming. More chills. Bouncing up and down. Disbelief. Shock. Joy. Screaming. Screaming. Yes. Victory.

Winning it all is all. Winning like last night added a flavor to it by not merely winning, but by dominating the game. That was special and historical and memorable. KG, Allen, you guys played your life for that. Pierce, you played your life and your heart for that win, for this team. You deserve all it entails. You are champions.

I am wearing my Celtics shirt today. I am bouncing off the walls and annoying everyone. What more can I say?

The Boston Celtics have won their 17th NBA Championship. The Boston Celtics are World Champs. The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics.

The Boston Celtics.

A Reflection On Father's Day

Yesterday was my second Father's Day. The 28th for my Dad. The 51st and 55+ for my grandfathers. I maintain the only thing that rivals being a Dad is being a Mom. The point being that having a child is the largest of little gifts. Wrapped in little smiles here and there, an occasional temper-tantrum and this feeling of more-than-responsibility.

Isaac's infused my life with an immeasurable joy and pride. I am at once teacher, disciplinarian, jester, comforter, entertainer, entertainee, duck and goose. That I love being a dad, that I well up with emotion when merely approaching the idea that I'm a father to this boy, this blue-eyed, yelling, screaming, pacifier throwing, doubled-over laughing, crying, pushing a toy lawnmower around for 2+ hours, child is my me.

The other night he had trouble sleeping. So I scooped him up before the tears could mount and sat with him in my arms. His grip on his green blanket was impenetrable as his breathing eventually slowed and the tears, watery and large, fell silently away. We sat there, like we do on occasion, for about 15 minutes and then I put him back in bed for the remainder of the night.

There's is a lot to fatherhood. But sometimes, that's all there is.

The Weight Of Glory

It is another aside from the movie "review" I posted about yesterday. And it concerns the child's love as well. For the boy in the film, his goal, his achievement in love was to be to have this particular girl notice him. He believed she didn't even know his name and set about correcting that. After a fervent chase scene, he manages to stand before her only briefly. He calls out her name, she responds in kind. And the boy can say nothing else. He is rendered speechless. She has noticed him. That more happens later is moot as this is the culmination of his story. When he appears back before his father, he is smiling, content, awed. Being noticed by her was his ultimate.

The idea of being noticed recalls to mind C.S. Lewis' greatest piece of writing: The Weight of Glory:

We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory... becomes highly relevant to our deep desire.

The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God...to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness...to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain.