One cry of despair does not suffice. The
Christian's Christ is too fine for me, not incarnate enough, not flesh
enough, not earth enough. He was never foolish and hot-eared and
inarticulate, never vain, he never forgot things, nor tangled his
miracles. I could love him I think more easily if the dead had not risen
and if he had lain in peace in his sepulchre instead of coming back more
enhaloed and whiter than ever, as a postscript to his own tragedy.
When I think of the Resurrection I am always reminded of the "happy
endings" that editors and actor managers are accustomed to impose upon
essentially tragic novels and plays...
You see how I stand in this matter, puzzled and confused by the
Christian presentation of Christ. I know there are many will answer--as
I suppose my friend the Rev. R.J. Campbell would answer--that what
confuses me is the overlaying of the personality of Jesus by stories and
superstitions and conflicting symbols; he will in effect ask me to
disentangle the Christ I need from the accumulated material, choosing
and rejecting. Perhaps one may do that.
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