We are waiting for Him. Those who don't even know about it, and those who refused it, are waiting the most. The apostates are waiting with great sadness.
"You don't feel satisfaction, after all, / Pleasure only arouses disgust in your heart..."
There has never been a greater emptiness in the world. Everything became empty. Joy is empty, the future is the emptiest. Only the Tower of Babel is built, out of profit and the seeming emptiness of words and thoughts. And the grave where Europe sinks is surrounded by peoples.
"The city is destroyed, a rude foreign people / Trample your golden sowing, / The order falls apart, no one commands / And does not take a word. Robberies and murders / go hand in hand among peaceful residents..."
We are waiting for Him. And He will come. Because it always comes. He is most in a hurry at the time of greatest hopelessness.
"The angel from heaven..." What if that angel actually arrived now? And would he land right in the middle of a big European city, at the "Christmas" market of apostates and those suffering from emptiness?
The papers would write that he was exclusionary and insulted those who did not believe he existed. And the angel would say, "but I'm here, I exist", and they would say, "that's not the point". Indeed…
"You can't stand it, can't you, with the intoxication of my lust / To stir up that speech, / Which stirs the depths of the bosom / And in vain urges you towards a better goal."
But. We can handle it. It's harder than that. But He will come. Scattered into Bethlehems, empty congo churches, vanity fairs, cold trenches frozen in silence, among the prophets of "there is no god". He knows them all. He had seen them all, in two thousand and twenty-three years. And now he will come again. Two thousand and twenty-third time. He doesn't get angry, he doesn't scold, he doesn't scold, he doesn't threaten, he just comes and says "I'm here, I exist". But the fair, Black Friday, is even more important today. Today.
“You wretched species! – cowardly generation, / While fortune smiles on you, / Like a fly in a ray of sunshine, impudent, / Mocking God, virtue, treading.”
He doesn't say that either. But the apostle Peter. And he adds:
"You will perish, wretched generation, / From the color of this great world that is now being cleansed."
Not really. Maybe not. After all, He will come again. And until it comes, there is life. Even if it's being covered up by the pretense of lying to life.
I'm planting a tree. In place of the branch of nothingness. I light a candle. Drive it. Planting a tree is equivalent to a revolution today. Because here in Europe we have become so inclusive, tolerant and liberal that we respect everyone's traditions and sensibilities, apart from our own traditions and sensitivities. Today, the only thing that is not worthy of respect is what we, ourselves, are. And then the end is near. But no one should think of some drastic, spectacular, apocalyptic end. This end will be so quiet, lukewarm, soft, almost imperceptible. Yes, we will be not ourselves without even realizing it. That is why he will come again.
With undemanding gentleness. But the three kings are no longer up to it, they had other, more important things to do.
I'm planting a tree. I'm rebelling. My father is no longer with me. My father was a man, my mother was a woman. We are behind the times. But He stayed, and I dare to confess my stay to Him. And because it will come, even this winter, I am not afraid. I am not afraid of the age in which I must live. Not even if he robbed me of all my illusions and took away all my dreams. Even if I see it, there has never, ever been a more disgusting freedom in the history of the world.
László Nagy was asked in the last interview with him, if someone sees this conversation a hundred years from now, what will it say to them? And he answered:
"If they still have human faces at all, I'll kiss them. Forgive me that this is all I could do for them.”
Not a hundred, but forty-five years have passed since then. And I'm thinking more and more about whether we still have a human face...
Please forgive us.
"Being if you're completely drained / who loves cricket-violin? / Who breathes flame on a bare branch? / Who will climb the rainbow? / Who cries and embraces the rocks into a soft hantu field? / Who nicknamed the wall / hairs, arteries? / And who builds a cathedral for angry faiths / out of swearing? / Life, if it is completely drained, / who scares the vulture! / And who will carry Love in their teeth / to the other shore!”
Forgive us. We still don't know what to do.
Featured image: MTI/Szilárd Koszticsák
