Faith In The Modern Age

This angel stands proud, yet somehow it's out of place, silhouetted by crepuscular skies of the bleak North East. And its outstretched rusted metal wings just seem to offer contrived grace. It's certainly the half- hearted product of a secular world. I prefer Nature's subtle, yet more profound scenes. I often watch autumn leaves as the wind blows them pointedly across stern, black cemetry gates. For they offer a perspective that this rapacious, modern age seems to always miss. No golden cross escapes erosion in Time. The Vatican's vast riches don't represent Christ. We may be misled. Each new investigation into the silence that surrounds the heart of Faith's matters, only seems to dredge up more questions. Faith requires Kierkegaard's leap into the unknown. It is the province of ragged poets, dreamers or exiled prophets, not smooth or calculated, or clear enough for cold-eyed operators, nor for the bloodless ways, of the pedantic scholar. Small, silent prayers speak louder than words, amidst the constant din, of great roaring, religions.