The point about faith is that it contradicts our bleak pessimistic contemporary realism. Especially at this time of year.
My housemate’s nursing colleague had her home burned down. The home she worked so hard to get and to make decent.
My severely alcoholic brother on the other side of the globe was arrested for ‘simple trespass’ which means he is living rough on the streets in a warm climate. I keep seeing him as a small pale-faced and freckled little boy with red hair, earnest and occasionally excitable, anxious and a little bewildered. What happened to him? And nobody can help him until he wants to help himself.
But we go on in a reckless counter-rational hope. Thinking of a baby born to refugee parents, to a young woman who may have been only 14 years old, going into labour without her mother, exhausted by travel and surrounded by squalor and noisy animals, placing the hastily wrapped new-born into the dirty trough from which sheep and cattle drank.
And believing it would somehow be all right at the end of the journey or the end of the story.