Poetry Trumps Theology...

..even, or perhaps especially, for a world-class theologian who cites with appreciation e. e. cummings'

wherelings whenlings,
(daughters of if but offsprings of hopefear
sons of unless and children of almost)
never shall guess the dimension of
him whose
each
foot likes the
here of this earth
whose both
eyes
love
this now of the sky.

Funny, we think the Others are the wherelings, the whenlings, the oblivious were-folk callously, inadvertently drinking living blood and tearing innocent flesh in egoistical inattention. But Fr. Alexander Schmemann observes that enlightenment may not be wheeee, so much as despair at our own condition upon awakening, even though the rain still has small hands.

Courtesy the inspiring reading of James Nee.