„We may not have a prophet like Isaiah or Jeremiah in our midst, Barth said, but we do have the Bible and the light of the prophetic word shining so brightly from its pages. “There is something wonderful about this ancient book,” Barth told his people.
“Particularly in these troubled times, yet at all times, we need to go to this source and to drink deeply from it.” He reminded them of a few of its majestic passages: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD! LORD, hear my voice!” (Ps. 130:1). “When you hear of wars and rumors of war, do not be alarmed” (Mark 13:7). “I know the plans I have for you . . . plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Jer. 29:11).”
„A Unique Time of God. Karl Barth’s WWI Sermons” Karl Barth
My first attempt to read a novel was, I guess, at eleven. I haven’t read much in childhood unfortunately. I seriously started to read only after I’ve met God. God filled me spiritually and only then I realized how empty I was intellectually.
So, the first attempt was Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I don’t think I finished it. I did tried to read it several times and nearly always my mum woke me up. I didn’t understood much because of that. No wonder…
The names were interesting though. Jean Valjean, Cosette, Javert etc. French. And Romania likes French stuff. Travel to Bucharest and you’ll see Little Paris. We copy paste Paris without a licence. They tought it will be a good ideea to copy paste the language and culture. I was taught French from my 2nd grade till I finished high school. Maybe that’s why I started to hate it. Nothing personal or national. I assume it was just my old teacher. Her style was slightly communist. But enough about my petite histoire francais
Talking about Les Miserables, I realized that it’s a sad and beautiful story, but also a story about God’s grace. Max Lucado brilliantly points this out in his book, Grace.
Valjean enters the pages as a vagabond. A just-released prisoner in midlife, wearing threadbare trousers and a tattered jacket. Nineteen years in a French prison have left him rough and fearless. He’s walked for four days in the Alpine chill of nineteenth-century southeastern France, just to find out that no inn will take him, no tavern will feed him. Finally he knocks on the door of a bishop’s house.
Monseigneur Myrel is seventy-five years old. Like Valjean he has lost much. The revolution took all the valuables from his family except some silverware, a soup ladle, and two candlesticks. Valjean tells his story and expects the religious man to turn him away. Butthe Continuă lectura