” Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.”
~Mother Teresa

Early in the week I heard a program on the radio about preparations for Thanksgiving meals. This iconic meal and its celebration is always a fascinating one for me. The ways in which people have such passion about what dishes ‘must’ be present for it to be Thanksgiving always makes me chuckle. For most it is the turkey, of course, except for my vegetarian friends who avert their eyes from the finely browned bird as it makes it entrance as the star of the show. For others it is the sweet potatoes, marshmallowed or otherwise, the mashed whites, or green bean casserole. I learned long ago not to even try to understand the various forms of corn puddings. Oysters? Bread crumbs? Round pan or square?

And this doesn’t even touch the wide range of dessert options. Of course in most homes pumpkin pie reigns supreme. But I have been with one for whom Thanksgiving is not complete without banana pudding ringed with vanilla wafers. Usually apple pie or mince meat or pecan also figures into that great Thanksgiving culinary portrait as well.

However the radio program was focusing on the humble cranberry. Being a lover of this little, tart fruit, I was all ears. The person being interviewed had been described as a ‘cranberry expert’. I let that rest within me for awhile. How does one become a cranberry expert? I understood his unique gift when he spoke the phrase that has been rolling around in my brain over the last few days. “Simply put, the cranberry is platonically beautiful.”

Well. Now there is a statement! Even this lover of cranberries will never see the fall fruit of the bog in the same way ever again. Platonically beautiful. I imagined the bright redness, the tart flavor upon my tongue. I remembered the way the berries make a popping sound in a pan filled with just enough water to cook them down to a sauce waiting for sugar. I thought of the few times I have seen them in their natural habitat in parts of Wisconsin as they formed a reddish floating film in the their watery home. Yes, platonically beautiful.

All week I have imagined what it might be like if we spoke with such respect and love and poetics about other parts of our amazing Creation. “Look at that squirrel. Isn’t it brilliantly furry?” “I just saw an earthworm, so shimmeringly slim.” ” Here comes the snow again. I love its delicate,lacey splendor.”

How we describe things to ourselves and others makes a difference. The words we use to paint a picture of how something or someone moves in the world has a power and energy that goes beyond us in ways we have no control over. It seems important to choose our words wisely, to not fling them into the world without forethought. Every day I meet people who have been inadequately or unfairly named or described and it has changed them, often harmed them. Many work diligently to overcome descriptions that have stuck, that have narrowed their lives. Perhaps you know someone like this. Perhaps it is true of you.

But somewhere, someone whose name I can’t remember, described a small, red, fruit as platonically beautiful and tomorrow I will enjoy this Thanksgiving staple in a new way. I will bask in its beauty and appreciate it with new eyes, a softer heart. Someone gave it new value, raised it to its original blessing as the art of the world it is.

As I give thanks, I will try to remember all those who are not as privileged as I am and pray God’s love and care upon them. I will remember that this One who breathed us all into being would use phrases much as the cranberry expert did and just as lofty to describe each and every part of this blessed earth. Human. Creature. Plant. All of it.

And I will be filled with gratitude and humility.

“Light reveals us to ourselves, which is not always great if you find yourself in a big disgusting mess, possibly of your own creation.”
~ Anne Lamott, Help,Thanks, Wow

It had been a long time since I had stood in line for a new book to be out in stores. Not since I waited in long lines with our Seattle Son in his much younger self, as we waited for whichever new Harry Potter tome to be released at midnight, had I been one of the first to have an anticipated copy of a book thrust into my hands. But on Tuesday morning at nine sharp, I waltzed into a local book store and picked up my reserved copy of Anne Lamott’s new book. I have been a fan of hers for years and had awaited this new volume of her unique look of the world and living a life of faith.

What I love about her writing is its humor, its raw and often brash way of being a person who, despite all odds, is in the church. I always hope I could at least learn something from her if not, every now and then, channel her. In those times when we church people take ourselves too seriously, when we act as if this meeting or that decision might actually change the world, I long to say something oddly funny that would bring us back to our senses the way Lamott’s writing does for me.

As I sat down to savor some her writing yesterday I was fresh off an experience of he
Ping to put together our Advent devotional for this year. Once again the people of our community have astounded me with their willingness to offer words of beauty, vulnerably, and hope on this year’s theme of Holy Darkness, Holy Light. As people steeped in a culture that wants so desperately to turn from any experience of darkness even to the point of demonizing it, these fellow faith-travelers have dared to see the sacred nature of these shadow siblings. As always, I was bathed in the grace of being
pilgrim with this amazing community.

Darkness. Light. As we moved into Daylight Saving time recently, the darkness has seemed to envelop us. Many of us head out into the world in a pseudo darkness and return in much the same way. I have been keenly aware of this over the last week. How to befriend the darkness? How to befriend the light?

If stopped on the street and asked which they prefer, darkness or light, I believe most people would choose light. And yet when looked at it as Lamott points out as ‘light revealing us to ourselves’, maybe not so much. Sometimes the dark allows us to hide which at times can be a very good thing. In the dark, the ugly little thoughts I have about someone or the pointy judgements I jab in the air around them can stay hidden. In the dark the fears I harbor, real or imagined, can sometimes feel safe and less frightening, even controlled. Shine the spotlight on either and the picture is not so pretty.

This reality and metaphor of darkness and light has compelled our attention since humans first walked upright. The gift of the approaching Advent season is that we are once again invited to look at this spectrum squarely and find ourselves in both. This is one lesson I learned as I read the deep, rich reflections of those in my faith community who chose to allow the light of their writing to reveal something true about them. It is brave work. And important. And blessed.

“Light reveals us to ourselves, which is not always great if you find yourself in a big disgusting mess, possibly of your own creation.”
~ Anne Lamott, Help,Thanks, Wow

It had been a long time since I had stood in line for a new book to be out in stores. Not since I waited in long lines with our Seattle Son in his much younger self, as we waited for whichever new Harry Potter tome to be released at midnight, had I been one of the first to have an anticipated copy of a book thrust into my hands. But on Tuesday morning at nine sharp, I waltzed into a local book store and picked up my reserved copy of Anne Lamott’s new book. I have been a fan of hers for years and had awaited this new volume of her unique look of the world and living a life of faith.

What I love about her writing is its humor, its raw and often brash way of being a person who, despite all odds, is in the church. I always hope I could at least learn something from her if not, every now and then, channel her. In those times when we church people take ourselves too seriously, when we act as if this meeting or that decision might actually change the world, I long to say something oddly funny that would bring us back to our senses the way Lamott’s writing does for me.

As I sat down to savor some her writing yesterday I was fresh off an experience of he
Ping to put together our Advent devotional for this year. Once again the people of our community have astounded me with their willingness to offer words of beauty, vulnerably, and hope on this year’s theme of Holy Darkness, Holy Light. As people steeped in a culture that wants so desperately to turn from any experience of darkness even to the point of demonizing it, these fellow faith-travelers have dared to see the sacred nature of these shadow siblings. As always, I was bathed in the grace of being
pilgrim with this amazing community.

Darkness. Light. As we moved into Daylight Saving time recently, the darkness has seemed to envelop us. Many of us head out into the world in a pseudo darkness and return in much the same way. I have been keenly aware of this over the last week. How to befriend the darkness? How to befriend the light?

If stopped on the street and asked which they prefer, darkness or light, I believe most people would choose light. And yet when looked at it as Lamott points out as ‘light revealing us to ourselves’, maybe not so much. Sometimes the dark allows us to hide which at times can be a very good thing. In the dark, the ugly little thoughts I have about someone or the pointy judgements I jab in the air around them can stay hidden. In the dark the fears I harbor, real or imagined, can sometimes feel safe and less frightening, even controlled. Shine the spotlight on either and the picture is not so pretty.

This reality and metaphor of darkness and light has compelled our attention since humans first walked upright. The gift of the approaching Advent season is that we are once again invited to look at this spectrum squarely and find ourselves in both. This is one lesson I learned as I read the deep, rich reflections of those in my faith community who chose to allow the light of their writing to reveal something true about them. It is brave work. And important. And blessed.

I have been thinking about turkeys a lot lately. It is not because of their impending sacrifice that will occur a week from Thursday. Instead it is because I am seeing them everywhere. In their fullest glory. You see, in the area where I live along the bluffs of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers, they are running rampant. With regularity I will need to at least slow down if not come to a full stop for the parade of these enormous birds as they cross the road in front of my car. In some areas you need to watch out for deer crossing the road. We are always on the lookout for turkeys.

Over the last several weeks, every time this happens, I chuckle to myself at their dignity and forceful presence. I always think about the idea that our Founders had, if ever so briefly, considered this fine-feathered specimen as our nation’s bird. Now I really only have this fact running through my head because of numerous viewings of the musical ‘1776’ in which Benjamin Franklin and John Adams sing an argumentative song about the turkey versus the eagle. Whether this is fact or dramatic invention, we know how that argument turned out.

And yet this somewhat more humble bird that stands tall and regal in a long-necked way is a beautiful creature of flight. Its feathers are iridescent, made up of blacks, greens, blues, all sweeping together to create a jewel-like affect.Team all that color with the brilliant red wattle and you have yourself a striking vision of strength.

Now one might argue, as Benjamin and John did, that we do not want to be thought of as a nation of turkeys or as the source of one of the finest feasts. We would much rather be seen as a soaring, white-headed symbol of strength and wisdom. But I can’t help but think that the majestic turkey has gotten a bad rap over the years and that it may have started with that original argument.

One reason I have taken such joy in encountering these birds is that each time I did I thought about how our blessed nation was founded in many streams of controversy including ones as seemingly silly as choosing a national bird. One might ask, why do we need one? But the idea that those who dreamed this nation and what it might become didn’t see eye to eye any more than we do in our time. Those early leaders, brilliant people filled with passion and vision, are mirrored in our time. Sometimes we forget this or allow a cynicism that has crept into our lives to color our ability to see this. That and the ability to constantly have information about ‘who said what’ coming at us from a variety of sources.

The people of that time, the regular people like you and me, probably were not aware that two of the most brilliant men they might ever meet were arguing about turkeys versus eagles as a symbol of a nation yet to be realized. They were too busy eeking out a life on land that was still new to them. As for me, I like thinking of this odd little argument that is might be a part of our history. It makes all the really big and important differences we need to address seem doable.

Turkey? Eagle? I think we would have been just as fine with either. The good news for the turkey is, had the argument gone the other way, we might be eating something completely different as our national feast.

There are certain words or phrases that seem to be reserved for church or sacred settings. Words like liturgy or sacrament for instance. Another is ‘bearing witness’. So when I heard someone on the radio today use it twice, my ears perked up. The voice I was hearing was Minnesota author Tim O’Brien and he was speaking of his collection of stories about Viet Nam, The Things They Carried. Frankly, after he used this phrase I stopped listening to the show’s content and began to think about what we mean when we say these words. Just the sound of them carries weight, resounds with a poignant presence that sends the imagination to deep, echoing places.

Bearing witness. In my work, I have the privilege of bearing witness to people’s lives in significant ways. Over the past several weeks I have borne witness to a young family bringing their beautiful daughter to be baptized and celebrated by our community. To this this gathered, extended family marvel at this girl child, was true gift. If I am lucky, or blessed, I will be able to bear witness to her life as I have to her mother’s and her brothers’.

Over these same days, I have also borne witness to the passing of two dear ones. In their deaths I have been able to listen to others bear witness to these lives that were entwined with theirs. It is holy work and its importance is not lost on me though I must admit there was a time when walking this way with families was difficult and something I did not feel I had the gifts for. As the years have progressed, I have found myself more and more comfortable in this wilderness of death and grief, of memory and celebration.

What I have learned over this time is the importance of telling someone’s story, of speaking their name into the Universe so it reverberates with their truth. Of bearing witness. This learning has caused me to be, I hope, a better listener and a non-anxious presence in what can be a time of confusion and a sense of being lost in a land for which no one is prepared.

Today as I listened to O’Brien talk about his reason for writing his book, I began to think about how we have the opportunity every day of bearing witness if only we would take advantage of it. All this before someone actually dies. Each and every day people hold their lives out to us. Those with whom we share our homes, both human or creature. Those with whom we work or go to school. The barista who pours our morning coffee or the one who hands us the pages filled with the world’s news. The child that lives next door who is growing up before our very eyes and who is, even in this breath, on their way to adulthood. The clerk who takes our money for gas or a soda. The restaurant worker who places a bowl of soup before us. The stranger who stands on the street with a sign and hands outstretched. All these and more are opportunities for bearing witness while life still throbs in the bodies of these our fellow pilgrims. Who knows? You or I may be the only ones who will pay attention to their living this day. Wouldn’t it be a shame if we missed this holy chance?

Bearing witness. How will you bear witness this day to this precious life which is fleeting and fragile and filled to overflowing? Someone is waiting for us to notice. To witness. To tell the story.

It is a rainy, somewhat dreary morning. And yet, though it is still quite early, I have already felt an energy that is electrifying. I have just returned from the place where I have cast my ballot full of well thought out votes. Votes that speak of my way of viewing the world. Votes that hope for the greater good for all people. Not just those whose lives are like mine but for those whose journey has been, and will forever be, vastly different than anything I can imagine. Votes that, for me, speak of my understanding of faith.

As I pulled out of my driveway the neighborhood children were waiting for the bus. I rolled down the window to say good morning. One of the young ones yelled out: “Happy voting!”. I smiled and offered my thanks. Driving away I thought of the joy with which his message was delivered. Walking into my polling place the faces that passed by me on their way out were not those who could be defined as ‘happy’. The seriousness of their countenance spoke of the long journey we have traveled to get to this day. It has been a journey filled with conflicting messages, half-truths and out right lies. It has been a journey that has pulled communities and families apart. It has been a journey that has spent a sinful amount of money on advertising and inciting fear. In so many ways, we all should be ashamed of ourselves. For the abuse of financial power and the twisting of truth to manipulate.

At the end of this day, decisions will be made and our lives will continue. We will get up and go to work. Children will go to school. Meals will be made, books will be read. Conversations will shift from politics to whatever it was we spoke of six months ago when these races, these amendments were not driving our energies. Depending on the outcomes of today’s votes, there may be changes, changes that impact our lives and the lives of others. Whatever the decisions, I have confidence that as a people we have the courage and creativity to continue to be a force for goodness in the world. Perhaps it is naive on my part but I truly believe the world tilts in this direction. Though we may veer off in other directions at times, I still believe as Anne Frank said in her diaries that humans are “good at heart”.

On Sunday as we ended our time of worship we sang a song together in voices that were filled with a hope for goodness that I cling to. It is a song written by Utah Phillips, justice and labor worker. You can hear the tune by searching his name and the title of the song ‘ Singing Through the Hard Times’. Faces lifted in smiles and courage and a stubborn love:

We are singing through the hard times,
Singing through the hard times;
Working for the good times to come.
We are singing through the hard times,
Singing through the hard times;
Working for the good times to come.

As people of faith we have always sung through the hard times while working for the good that is yet to be. We have sung psalms and spirituals. We have sung hymns and songs of protest. We have lifted our voices creating a cloud of music that hovers above even the darkest of times. Today we will, as we always have, take seriously the work that is before us while at the same time knowing some deep happiness in our hearts that we have the privilege to stand shoulder to shoulder with those who agree and disagree with us. In this standing we continue to give birth to this nation which was merely a dream less that three centuries ago.

As a country we are young and we are still learning what it means to be ‘ of the people, by the people and for the people.’ My prayer is that this day ends showing that, perhaps, we have learned some lessons.

Last evening I was privileged to be a part of a group of worshipers who gathered to remember and name the saints, those who have graced our lives but are no longer visible and those whose faces we are blessed to see every day. Our sanctuary was packed with generations of people who have also stood by those who work for the equality of all people. While remembering the saints and speaking their names aloud so they danced in the air around us, we also held before one another and God one of the proposed amendments before the people of Minnesota which would limit the way our state constitution defines marriage. We were the people saying ‘no’.

Watching this process unfold as we have over the last months I am once again stunned at humanity’s ability to inflict pain and suffering on one another. Of course, as people of faith we need look no further that the scriptures to see this human tendency. People who want to create a circle around their understanding of God, a circle that includes them and excludes others. People who scoff at what some hold dear and lift up as holy what they cherish. Those who want to write the rules to fit their fears, their perceived ability to control the world, their understanding of the scriptures, to keep all that seems different at bay. People who believe they have a monopoly on the Word of God. Last night the people gathered dared to proclaim a different gospel.

The words that called us into worship had a refrain spoken by the gathered community: Day by day, we bring forth the Love of God. Led by a single voice this response grew stronger and more powerful with each repeating. Day by day, we bring forth the Love of God…….on the chaos of the world…….to transform the world…….as treasures to one another and our communities……to those assigned to the margins of church and society. We spoke this affirmation with conviction and confidence. For our time. For that place. In that hour.

All Saint’s Day is about peering through the veil that connects heaven and earth. It is about naming and re-naming those people who have shone forth God’s face to us in ways large and small. Last night that veil was very thin. I believe those throughout time who have worked for justice smiled through. I believe those who have been excluded for all the reasons humanity is wont to do so offered their grace. I believe that, for a brief shining moment in time, we offered goodness, kindness, humility and the love of God into the world. I believe all the saints hovered and held the space for us.

Day by day we bring forth the Love of God. Some days we are just more aware of it than others. Yesterday was one of them.

One of my favorite musicals is ‘Mame’ the story of flamboyant Mame Dennis, whose life motto goes something like:”Life is a banquet and most poor people are starving to death!” Her fabulous life with her wealthy friends is interrupted when the young son of her late brother arrives to live with her. They cope with the Great Depression and the on set of world war in a series of adventures.Truth be told it is on my bucket list to perform this role on stage before I make my own grand exit. Don’t mark your calendars just yet!

In one of the scenes the characters of this play is lamenting the state of the world and wallowing in all the negative things happening around them. To this Mame declares that what they need is a ‘little Christmas’. Of course, being a musical, a song ensues in which they remember all the small but joyful things they love about the celebration of Christmas. This singing leaves them breathless, laughing, and wrapped in the joy that comes from being together with those you love and care about doing the simplest of things. Even the most cynical of characters is lifted above their ordinarily somber selves.

As this day, October 31st, Halloween has approached, I have thought a lot about Auntie Mame. I have thought “What we need is a ‘little Halloween’!” This holiday in which kids rule the day, on which we throw all attention to nutrition right out the window, is a day we have set aside to not take ourselves too seriously. Houses are decorated with pumpkins and ghosts, vampires and the things that go bump in the night. All throughout our neighborhood houses have orange lights twinkling and bats and other flying creatures suspended from the now naked trees. It all makes me laugh just thinking of it.

It seems to me that in these days when we are nearly overcome with the fear mongering that wears the mask of political advertising, we need the harmlessness of pirates and clowns, princesses and superheroes arriving at our doors. We need the gift of fresh faces looking up and shouting as they have been coached at home: “Trick or Treat!” Holding out their bags we have the opportunity to not only put in a sweet morsel or two but to say to these young ones that they matter, that the world is a wonderful, gracious place, that their fears are held at bay by family and stranger alike.

Of course Halloween is just an extension of an ancient holiday celebrating the time believed to be those days when the veil between the seen and unseen, the living and the dead, is thinnest of all. These are the times when some will place favorite foods of departed loved ones out so they will once again be reminded of their good days on earth. These are the times the Christian church set aside as All Soul’s and All Saint’s days. They are important days to remember the fragility of life and the goodness of those who have graced our lives. Important, important things to do.

What are your plans for this Halloween? Will you don a mask or costume to greet those that arrive at your door? Will you look into the eyes of those young ones and offer them blessing, blessing against all their fears real or imagined? Will you allow yourself to laugh and enjoy the sheer silliness of this ritual of giving candy to those who show up as hero or fool?

I pray that you allow all this to happen and more. That you, that I, allow these days of glimpsing the seen and unseen to create a blanket of comfort and rest for our living. May we honor that place within that just needs a ‘little Halloween’.

There are times in any life that seem to be spinning at a speed faster than can in reality be lived, truly lived. I may be teetering on the edge of just such a time. Since returning from Ireland only two weeks ago, I am finding myself remembering the sweet, greenness of that place as if it happened years ago. Perhaps it is a symptom of the times in which we are living, the frantic pace of these pre-election days. Others may be having this same swirling sensation, this feeling of being in a boiling pot into which more and more ingredients keep being thrown. Somehow I would gain some comfort in knowing that it is not just my experience but that others are also trying to grab onto a solid thing that will steady them.

On Thursday, I was blessed to spend the day listening to the deep, rich words of poet David Whyte. To be a part of this day bathed in beauty and reflection only resulted in pointing out my own spinning. When confronted with the questions he asked through poetry and his own storytelling, I nearly became undone with my own lack of reflection, my own constant movement. Questions like: What story have you been repeating that isn’t true? How invitational is your identity? How invitational is your work place? What do you need to do to drink from another well? What are you being asked to step into?

These are not questions to think through while driving in rush hour traffic or downing a fast food lunch. These are insomnia producing, middle-of-the-night, wrestling questions. They are the kind of questions you put in a backpack full of provisions to take into the wilderness. And yet, these questions and even more have been stuffed into my already full ‘things to be reflected upon’ space. At this point my brain, my body, my spirit, feels like one of those overstuffed bears you can buy at the mall. The seams are near to bursting!

What is needed is some good old down time, some mulling time, some staring into the middle distance time. I am not sure when this time will come given the coming days but I am reminded of another saying Whyte dropped into his vivid telling of story. In remembering a time when he and his good friend John O’Donohue were together, he told of a time when he told friend that he was thinking of giving his own father a gift of money. O’Donohue asked how much? When Whyte responded with a sum, O’Donohue encouraged him to give twice the amount. “Go against yourself, David!”

Go against yourself. It is not a phrase I had heard before but it stuck with me. Go against yourself. Take what you would normally do and expand it or do the opposite of what you might. Take what feels comfortable and go the extra step. Take what is a small gesture and make it a grand one.

I am thinking of what it would mean to go against myself in all this spinning. What would happen if I, if you, if we, simply sat down and took a good,long,restful time of reflection? What if we went against ourselves and allowed the questions, the really important questions, to spend time in us until we lived into an answer that brought newness, something we hadn’t planned for or ever expected? What would happen if we turned off all the messages coming at us and instead spent time with what is already residing within us?

In these days, these precious days that are after all our lives, may we each find times of going against ourselves in whatever way that means. May the end, which will come sooner or later, not find us still waiting to reflect on the way the sun shone on the water, that particular day, when we walked with a beloved companion on a rocky shore in the greenest of places.

Yesterday I sat down to have lunch all by myself. This is a rare occurrence and being an extrovert it is not something I prefer to do. Instead I like to get a good dose of energy from the people around me while ingesting the nutrients of my food. But there were fewer people in the office yesterday and others had gone off to do lunch on their own. So I was eating solo.

Sitting down in our church library with my bowl of soup I picked up a copy of the magazine Christian Century. I must admit,unlike many of my colleagues, it is a periodical I rarely read. But one of the titles on the cover caught my attention: The Power of Poetic Preaching. It was written by a husband and wife, Elizabeth Myer Boulton and Matthew Myer Boulton. Since it is not often you see the words ‘poetic’ and ‘preaching’ in the same sentence,I was intrigued. I was not disappointed by what I read.

” When it comes to Christian preaching,then, sermons should protect people with words. In intimate, visceral, vivid ways, preachers should name and contradict the disarming lies and then replace them with equally intimate, wondrous and wearable forms of truth. Sermons should stir us to stand firm against death-dealing forces wherever we find them………..Sometimes poetry is the best defense we have.”

These words cut through me like a knife. I suppose this is the time for confession. I am not a big lover of listening to preaching. How I found myself in this faith tradition that holds it in such high regard, I do not know. I much prefer silence or making music or seeing something visual to unpack the scripture in worship. Preaching most often feels one sided to me and I long for dialogue. And yet I realize that the majority of people who come to church look toward this central part of the liturgy. Look forward to it. Count on it. Hope for it.

Over the years I have found myself hanging around in churches, I have heard some mighty sermons. I have also heard some that have left me scratching my head. Still others have broken my heart. And though I have never thought of myself as a ‘preacher’, I do take on that role at times. While I may long for conversation I know there are people who equally long for someone to unpack the scripture, tell the story, connect it to their life and bless them on their way. Someone to preach.

Yesterday as I read these words I became enthralled with the work of preaching in a new way. To protect people with words. To take the power out of lies and offer people wearable forms of truth. To invite people to put on the armor of poetry. This all seems like such holy work that I am knocked off my feet with the hopeful possibility of it.

It seems to me we are a weary people these days. We have crawled out of some terrible economic times. Some are still crawling. We have questioned some of the very core values we held dear, many which shaped our identity as a people, as a nation, as people of faith. As we are bombarded by messages of half-truths or out right lies, many of us are walking around in the fabric of our daily lives with glazed eyes and dulled minds. As we try to make sense of messages whose purpose is to instill fear and despair we feel manipulated by words that, if we took the time to analyze them, would make us question their power.

And so I look for the preachers, ordained or otherwise, who will make an effort to protect with words, those who will offer wearable forms of truth. I will look for the poets who can, in the turn of a small phrase, offer a defense. I am reminded that in one of the apostle Paul’s letters he uses the phrase ‘put on the clothes of Christ’.

May it be so. May it be so.