“You are not Rupert Murdock,” The Cosmos said in a smug voice early this morning. “And you’re not Taylor Swift.”
“Uh, come again?” I frowned, sleepy and irritated by this authoritative announcement. “Why would you stop by to point that out? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Nope. Nothing better. And sometimes it’s important to remember who you aren’t.”
It’s cold today. I smudge my forehead with ashes before I start the fire. My nobodiness is both indictment and exoneration. Burden and relief.
Every evening, a host of witnesses comes home to roost in their insulated shed. As the light wanes, a plexiglass panel slides shut to protect them from the terrors of the night. Once in a while, one of the witnesses lollygags outside until after the door has closed, and she’s forced to spend the night awake, perched on the other side of safety, exposed to predators and the elements. She usually survives.
Let us pause and consider what we’ve been taught about faith. In the tongues of angels, witches, pricks, and liars, from the mouths of shape shifters and reptiles, from the words of the prophets written on the railroad cars, the definition is disturbingly clear
Faith without feeding the hungry is dead. Sacrifice without love is pointless. And believing that life should be free of suffering is tragically naïve.
“We can’t make something true by believing as hard as we can, right?” I asked The Flock.
“Right,” The Cosmos answered. “You cannot. So be sure to believe only that which you know to be true.”
This made me laugh. And then cry.
“Why don’t you show us where it hurts?” whispered the demons with eyes all aglow. “So we’ll know where to bite you.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’m not Rupert Murdock. I have to take care of myself.”
Short visits with an honest God 