Posts tagged ‘gods’

January 7, 2018

she would hearken the voice of the midnight till she heard what the gods would do

For the wisest of women she was, and many a thing she knew;
She would hearken the voice of the midnight till she heard what the Gods would do,
And her feet fared oft on the wild, and deep was her communing
With the heart of the glimmering woodland, where never a fowl may sing.

From The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs by William Morris (1876). This is an epic poem (over 10,000 lines) that draws upon the Volsunga Saga and the Elder Edda. It tells the tragic story of the Norse hero Sigmund, his son Sigurd, and Sigurd’s wife Gudrun.

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May 15, 2013

a society of possible gods and goddesses

This is the entire last passage from “The Weight of Glory” by C.S. Lewis. [Preached originally as a sermon at the Oxford University Church of St. Mary the Virgin on June 8, 1941. First published as a single transcribed sermon called “The Weight of Glory” and appearing in the British periodical Theology, 1941. First published in book form by Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, London, 1942.]

It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

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