I am their father, says God.
Our Father who art in heaven.
My Son told them often enough
that I was their father.
I am their judge.
But I am especially their father.
He who is a father is above all a father.
Our Father who art in heaven.
He who has once been a father
can be nothing else but a father.
They are my Son’s brothers.
They are my children.
I am their father.
Our Father who art in heaven.
My Son taught them that prayer.
“Pray like this,” he said,
“Our Father…”
He knew very well what he was doing that day,
my Son who loved them so.
Who lived among them,
who was like one of them.
Who went as they did,
who spoke as they did,
who lived as they did.
Who suffered.
Who suffered as they did,
who died as they did.
Who loved them so,
having known them.
Who brought back to heaven,
back home,
a certain taste for man,
a certain taste for the earth.
He knew well what he was doing that day,
my Son who loved them so.
Our Father…Those few words.
That barrier of words which my anger,
and perhaps even my justice,
will never pass.
Those few words that conquer me,
the unconquerable.
That actually is the way I see them, says God.
During my eternity, eternally, says God.
Because of my Son,
thus must I eternally see them.
And judge them, now? After that.
Now I must judge them like a “father.”
As if a father were any good as a judge.
There is a famous example of that.
A story of my Son told them.
A certain man had two sons, he told them.
We know well enough how the father “judged”
the son who went away and came back.
The father wept even more than the son.
And that story is the story
my Son has been telling them.
A certain man had two sons.
We know well enough how the “judgments”
end up in that story.
A certain man had two sons.
It always ends with embraces.
And with the father crying
even more than anyone else.
— Charles Péguy, from “A Vision of Prayer” in God Speaks