On a physical level, a beautiful building is burning.

I’ve never seen Notre Dame, never been to Paris. There is so much of our history—as a civilization, as a church—that I have yet to witness. At this point, I may never witness it at all.

Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that the craftsmanship that constructed those old great cathedrals actually existed. The transcendently beautiful stained glass. The statues that seemingly contained no flaws. Men built that, with their hands.

On a social level, history is burning.

Individually, we come from dust and return to dust—but what our ancestors have accomplished is almost incomprehensibly vast. Generation upon generation, each building toward something bigger than himself, bigger than his family. Trusting a plan that was sound.

It’s hard for me to comprehend that a plan could stay intact for that long, long enough to build a cathedral. And yet, it did.

We modern men with our computers and our plastic and our planning models, we are but shadows compared to our forebears.

On a symbolic level, Christianity is burning.

Time is still passing, so I can’t say “we have failed.” It is not my place to say “we have failed.” Only God can judge that, and it is not yet the end of days. We are still called to press forward, to charge into the battle armed with His truth.

And yet, we can’t (wont?) defend a treasure of the faith. The church has gone from a place where we claim sanctuary, to a place that we can’t even keep safe.

We in the West have stretched the truth to our own purposes. We have distorted it into a funhouse mirror of social justice and impotent mercy. When we do try, our efforts feel neutered.

I am torn—torn between sorrow and a deep, silent rage.