Standing on the streetin the early morning of late autumn,I marvel to see, to my left,over my own backyard, rainand to my right, over my neighbor’s barn,only clear, dry air.As I walk this linedrawn by the ordinary length of asphalt,I think of the theologian who said,God is on the loose now,no longer hidden behindthe parochet, waiting for the high priestto ask for the atonementof his people’s sins.The rain has to clear somewhere.Why not here? Like the road has renta veil that cloaks the fullnessof sight, separates shade from light.
Year-end lists of books, music and film; interview with Dennis Sanders; Tom Long on desperate prayers.
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