Consider the first Advent candle, which we light when the days are shortest and the nights are longest. If we were being entirely reasonable about it, this would be exactly the wrong time to speak of hope. It would be like planting a garden in winter

We have achieved a curious feat in our modern world: we've managed to forget the most fundamental aspect of thanksgiving - to whom we are giving it. We remember the turkey but forget the God who made both turkeys and hunger; we remember the feast but forget the Host; we remember to say "thank you" but carefully forget to whom we say it.

It is a peculiar folly of our age, a madness that seems to have infected the very marrow of our modern bones, that we have come to despise the small things. We are forever chasing after the grand and the glorious, the monumental and the massive, as if size alone could confer significance. Our eyes are constantly lifted to the horizon, searching for the next big thing, the revolutionary idea, the world-changing event. But in this mad pursuit of the colossal, we have forgotten the divine dignity of the diminutive. We have, in our modern mania, made the grievous error of mistaking bigness for greatness.

The legend of Saint Christopher, a fearsome giant who became Christ's humble servant, speaks to every spiritual wanderer. In his transformation from mighty warrior to river-crossing servant, we discover a profound truth: our greatest journey isn't across physical distances, but from pride to purpose.

 

In our upside-down world, shadows are counted more substantial than sunlight, and darkness more real than dawn. Yet Christianity offers a startling reversal: a divine madness that transforms the darkest night into the brightest day, where even the deepest shadows bow before the light.

In the grand tapestry of Christian thought, few threads are as golden and vibrant as the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi: "LORD, make me an instrument of your peace." This prayer stands as a divine contradiction in our modern world—a holy absurdity ...