Description
The Crux
Consider it. Look long and hard at it. It is the hinge of history, the interruption of God in the pathway of human misery. It is the invasion of God into this vale of tears to bear our load. It has culture-shaping power, it has a magnetic field; it has centrifugal force and centripetal
influence. It is the centre of the universe. It is the cross. For passengers on board one of the great trans-Atlantic liners of Edwardian times, the engine room down below, with all its grease and sweat, and heat and noise, would have been far too unpleasant and dangerous to ever visit. Compared to the elegant staterooms, parlours and restaurants, where people relaxed, drank port and talked big, it was a place of unrelenting pain and labour. But it was absolutely necessary. Were it to cease functioning, the passengers,
both great and small, would be hopelessly stranded in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Beneath travellers by ox cart on some dusty road beneath a blue oriental sky, wear and tear to the wheel rim there may be; there might even be the odd missing spoke. But the thing of crucial importance to their continued mobility is the hub. Or take the garden spider who has made her home in the handle of your garden fork. There may be many missing links in her intricate dewy web, but to catch her next meal, she does not need to fret too much about those. All that is required is that she remains in the centre of her web, the hairy tips of her toes touching whatever strands there are that have survived the ravages of wind and bumble bees. If she remains in the centre, she stays in touch with any vibrations that might echo along the fragile gossamer, and races to her catch.
Continues...
Consider it. Look long and hard at it. It is the hinge of history, the interruption of God in the pathway of human misery. It is the invasion of God into this vale of tears to bear our load. It has culture-shaping power, it has a magnetic field; it has centrifugal force and centripetal
influence. It is the centre of the universe. It is the cross. For passengers on board one of the great trans-Atlantic liners of Edwardian times, the engine room down below, with all its grease and sweat, and heat and noise, would have been far too unpleasant and dangerous to ever visit. Compared to the elegant staterooms, parlours and restaurants, where people relaxed, drank port and talked big, it was a place of unrelenting pain and labour. But it was absolutely necessary. Were it to cease functioning, the passengers,
both great and small, would be hopelessly stranded in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Beneath travellers by ox cart on some dusty road beneath a blue oriental sky, wear and tear to the wheel rim there may be; there might even be the odd missing spoke. But the thing of crucial importance to their continued mobility is the hub. Or take the garden spider who has made her home in the handle of your garden fork. There may be many missing links in her intricate dewy web, but to catch her next meal, she does not need to fret too much about those. All that is required is that she remains in the centre of her web, the hairy tips of her toes touching whatever strands there are that have survived the ravages of wind and bumble bees. If she remains in the centre, she stays in touch with any vibrations that might echo along the fragile gossamer, and races to her catch.
Continues...
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