Excerpt from Petrus Bue’s work on the spirit of man, and doubt of God

  (...) For if one thinks of the Maker—our God—in the measures of might and mastery, one must picture Him high above His works: enthroned, remote, gazing downward in judgment. So we are taught. For are we not but dust beneath His shadow, frail within the sweep of His will?

  Yet there is might here as well, and it is neither meek nor low. Did we not once consign all strength of Heaven and Hell to powers beyond? Was He not the sole wielder of that sword and shield?

  Then how may one deny what stands before the eye: that men, mere men, bear within them the same spark once thought divine. Power that prophets praised, and martyrs feared.

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  Men who do not die.

  Men who burn, yet do not perish.

  Men who heal, destroy, and rise again—by forces their flesh should not contain.

  Priests name it miracle. Saints call it blessing. But what of those saints who curse their gifts, who pray for silence, who long for the mercy of extinction? What of the men whose bodies twist into the devil’s likeness? Has not God the power to forbid such ruin?

  Or must we consider—though the thought shames the devout—that the power lies in man himself? That we are vessels of something unbound, older than word or faith? A force capable of lighting the heavens—or setting them to flame?

  Did God create this power within us?

  Or did we, once freed from His hand, awaken it ourselves?

  Did God make us—or did we make Him?