Category Archives: Nicholas Wolfterstorff

“The tears of God are the meaning of history”

God is love. That is why he suffers. To love our suffering, sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that he gave up his only Son to suffering. The one who does not see God’s suffering … Continue reading

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“This gaping wound in my chest–does it heal?”

“By his wounds we are healed.” In the wounds of Christ is humanity’s healing. Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest–does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did … Continue reading

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“Why do you permit yourself to suffer, O God?”

How is faith to endure, O God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity’s song–all without lifting a finger … Continue reading

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“Wounded love is special love, special in its wound”

Was he special? Did I love him more–more than his sister and brothers? When they see my tears, do they think I loved him more? I visualize the appallingly cruel choice with which Hitler’s henchmen faced Jewish parents: select one … Continue reading

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“That future which I embraced to myself has been destroyed”

What is it that makes the death of a child so indescribably painful? I buried my father and that was hard. But nothing at all like this. One expects to bury one’s parents; one doesn’t expect–not in our day and … Continue reading

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“I’ve become an alien in the world, shyly touching it as if it’s not mine”

Let me try again. All these things I recognize. I remember delighting in them–trees, art, house, music, pink morning sky, work well done, flowers, books. I still delight in them. I’m still grateful. But the zest is gone. The passion … Continue reading

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“Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea”

The world looks different now. The pinks have become purple, the yellows brown. Mountains now wear crosses on their slopes. … Something is over. In the deepest levels of my existence something is finished, done. My life is divided into … Continue reading

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“I buried myself that warm June day”

I buried myself that warm June day. It was me those gardeners lowered on squeaking straps into that hot dry hole, curious neighborhood children looking down in at me, everyone stilled, wind rustling the oaks. It was me over whom … Continue reading

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