Church this morning, resplendent with impressions: cosmos.
The mysteries of life from death: yes, mysteries. He gave it a magnificent new shape, yet the mystery of resurrection is not the property of Christ alone. It is the mystery of buds opening after the bare bones of winter begin to yield to waxing sun; the mystery of a wood duck, parading its kabuki mandarin plumage in the drab dead brush of last year's marsh.
The universe began to exist; of this there is no doubt.
How we ended up here, now, is another question:
Examine the questions of physics, biology, all the sciences: attempt to explain it. How can this much complexity, this much beauty arise from our "accidental," chaotic, random universe?
The sheer diversity of impressions of actual life beggars any attempts at explanation; beggars any attempts at understanding, because in the end the presence, the magnificence of existence defies every assault, every violation of the intellect.
If we actually see it, we see how impossible even existence itself ought to be.
The only tools of understanding that this mystery yields to are those of sensitivity, the emotive sense of touch: an innate feeling of what is that words always fall short of.
Nonetheless, in the singing, the light, the sound, the glorious colors, the stonework, the soaring ceilings and the bustle of a congregation filled with the young and the old: in this something sacred lies.
God bless you all on this most holy of Christian days.
May your roots find water, and your leaves know sun.