A solid old brick house on Clayton Road with a sign outside: Living Insights Center. A meeting place, maybe, some kind of recovery program? I step inside. In the first room to the right, a lifesize statue of St. Therese of Lisieux gazes at an illuminated Qu’ran, a silver menorah,…
I am not losing my faith. I am wondering where that religion truly is. Is this really the place where God Himself enters into physical form in our midst?
The tech bros must have stumbled onto Abraham Heschel’s book about the Sabbath.
People worried sick about bigotry used to murmur, “Our hope is the young people.” Now the opposite is true.
Why would I not desire a good Camembert, or a sweater soft as a lamb?
Having lived in the United States for a few years, I have either struggled to understand democracy in practice or struggled to keep up with it.
My friend is a little witchy, a little woowoo. She gets “feelings” before something happens.... Does precognition exist?
Why is it only certain characters among my friends—the recovered addict who got rich off disaster services, the photographer who did federal time on a RICO conviction, the former scout and paratrooper with traumatic brain injury—tell me they love me? My polite friends, the “normal” ones, the ones with long, seemingly solid marriages and steady white-collar jobs and no priors, do not say such things, despite often having been in my life longer or more directly.
Somehow I had come to think of the Bible as stuck together from the start, a sacred, ordained book on which we speak our oaths...
A spiritual pilgrimage we never expected.