We have now entered, at least for a time, into the ranks of those who own land. The Son of God and the Theotokos may have had no place to lay their heads on Christmas, but we do, and if they stopped by in the next week or, given my understanding of concupiscence (not to mention the sorry state of boxes all over our house), I'd make them sleep in the shack with the lawnmower (that we don't yet own).
Greg recently asked me if living as pilgrim people gives me a headache. I certainly did have a headache the first day of our move, probably exhaustion. But to be on the move with the people of God towards and with Christ in the Spirit (if I can say it that way) is perichoretically exhilirating, even if the minutiae of box packing is not to my like.
We've already started calling up library reserves to our new public library, and this morning I've got messiaen's quatuor pour la fin du temps playing. It was written while he was a POW in Silesia, in a Stalag. Talk about being creative and faithful while a pilgrim in the worst of straits. He's seeking to do "eternity in space", makes his first reference to bird songs, and seeks a "tonal ubiquity". There's another use of a term often abused when speaking of Lutherans. Maybe this afternoon I'll listen to Coltrane and get in some "atonal ubiquity".