Half the apparent truth of the world is mad (whether the optimists' good' or the pessimists' bad') and most of us failed the exams in it, after all, bored stiff by the so-called 'facts' we could never recall. (Sent to the back of the class labelled `Dumbo' I could never fathom that endless mumbo-jumbo).
I look at the beautiful Virgin and Christ-child and read, once again, the simple story in Luke: undefiled by spurious knowledge. And The Holy Ghost in 'Acts' is easier than the world of so-called 'facts'.
Turning commonplace water into wine or bringing the dead to life, I take as a sign of simple miraculous truth. Far less odd than the capers under banner headlines in the papers.
(`You surely', says the man on his seventh beer, waving The Sun, 'don't believe what they say in here!') Well, it's not so much belief as the promise of love, the reward of faith: something above that makes life down here bearable. Who, alone and desperate for bread, would expect a stone?