But I think it very difficult to believe in a mild providence who looks down upon our earthly hell and smiles graciously in his beard; when I remember Gethsemane it is hard to believe that. The rag on the rock, He who calls God His Father, is for me a protest and a contradiction of a nicy nice faith in God the Father. I read during the war about human beings in Hamburg who, during a bombing, melted down with the asphalt in the streets. Afterwards you could see a little child’s hand stick up out of the congealed mass. I wonder if it is not the horror of this sight that makes it impossible for me not to look at the Christ hands in our altar painting. This is the kind of thing the Good Father in heaven ought to look down on. Perhaps a bit sorrowful, perhaps lifting His finger like an inept school teacher in the seventh grade: “Now let’s all be nice.” No, that I do not have the strength to believe.
But what about my absolutism with respect to the right. Perhaps it is a variant of this bland faith. You put God a little farther away and change Him into a neuter; in that way you don’t have to reckon with His heart.
Klara Svensson in Holy Masquerade (53-54) [my annual Lenten reading]