My upstairs home-newscaster and spouse, just sent me a piece from the Huffington Post of May 7, 2013, written by Seema Jilani, a physician reporting from Afhanistan, “My Racist Encounter at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.” She reported from Afghanistan.
Jilani was not invited to attend the D.C.dinner, just the cocktail hour. I gasped, having myself been shut out of an inner circle church search committee interview where my husband was being interviewed and I (newly ordained priest), was invited to come, but only to the social time. “You can sit in the library,” I was told. Jilani’s dinner was for correspondents only. OK —sort of.
But she had forgotten to get the car keys from her husband who was already in the ballroom for what she calls the “hideous schmooz fest” of “wannabe-famous.”
Jilani tried to explain her case several times to the security police and was not admitted because she “had no ticket”. She tried to reach her husband but couldn’t. Then to her horror she observed that several women—all Caucasian— were let through and no tickets were checked. When confronted she was told that “Well now we are checking tickets.”
The story reels on and it made me nauseous. Attempts by Jilani to confront lying and request respect for her own credentials, as native English speaker who was born in New Orleans and a physician trained at a prestigious facility, only met with more lies and ridicule, like: “You were here last year weren’t you? We had trouble with you last year.”
The horror set in: “White privilege was on display, palpable to passersby who consoled me. I’ve come to expect this repulsive racism in many aspects of my life, but when I find it entrenched in these smaller encounters is when salt is sprinkled into the wounds. In these crystallizing moments it is clear that while I might see myself as just another all-American gal who has great affection for this country, others see me as something less than human, more now than ever before.”
I could go on, but it’s enough to say that Seema Jilani’s rage and pain were quite justified. There was racism blunt and bold; ugly paranoia led the way; and prejudice based in revenge and hate, posing as Security, was the order of the day in the wake of bombings and acts of terrorism against our country. Such attitude is toxic to our own souls. I’m afraid it will spread.
Dr Jilani is an American. So was Dzhoknar Tsarnaev. I admit I was disturbed by all the local negativity about the burial the older Tsarnaev borther's body in Massachusetts. And I admire the funeral home in Worcester for its graciousness. The man’s body should go back to Russia. Not because we are mean-spirited and ethnically puristic but because it would disgrace our country if there was desecration of a grave.
When we Americans behave this way we only shame ourselves and we are not Americans. I know it is too soon for many to feel anything else but pain and the need to close in and exclude, but I pray that will begin to happen soon, or we ourselves will be un-American.
And we won’t be Christians either— because what Dr. Jilani experienced was racism, sexism AND religious bigotry.
More now than ever Christians, and other religions who have like covenants, need to renew and remember our covenants. In the Book of Common Prayer baptismal rite, Anglicans promise to: “Strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being and the whole created order [italics mine].
Thank God, we promise to strive for this “with God’s help” because we sure can’t do it otherwise.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
2013.05.05 Spirituality and Religion/Horse and Carriage
The last line of my post of April 28 was a bit snarky I admit.
I wrote: “Oh, incidentally, I'm beginning to despise the word spiritual—so bleak and easy, avoidant and limp— though I understand its vogue.”
I dropped my gut feeling into the midst, and left it to hang there. A friend said: Pursue it.
I’m challenged to elaborate on what I would call the false dichotomy between religion and spirituality. I’ve occasionally said “I’m religious not spiritual” to provoke conversation, but that sounds about as silly to me the oft-heard current comment: “I’m spiritual but not religious.”
The Governor of Massachusetts at the interfaith service for young Sean Collier, the MIT policeman who was arbitrarily shot to death by the Tsarnaev brothers made reference to “our spiritual religion.” He was referring to some comforting words from a religious tradition. I was struck by the phrase "spiritual religion" and wondered if there was another kind of religion that wasn’t spiritual, like our civil religion.
When I was in seminary I took a course in American Religious History and well remember much discussion of the American civil religion, a way in which our country’s founding dreams and identity visions could be compared to a religion.
The word religion (from Latin re + ligare or ligio, to bind, a bond or reverence) and the word ligament (fibrous connective tissues that binds bones together and holds joints secure) come from the same root: ligare. To me this root connection suggests that religion can be connective as well as flexible, like a ligament. Religion is not supposed to be a tight leash but a sure support that holds me together especially in times of trouble, and that lets me stretch and grow to become the best woman and priest I can be.
Right now I am religious about my stretching exercises so my ligaments and muscles will support my bones and joints as I age. I am also religious because I am faithful to a power greater than myself I call God and to the community of practice I call Church. And sometimes I feel religious about my commitment to my country.
When Spirituality avoids Religion, it feels dissociated and, for me, comes up limping. It’s also seem to me to be quite diffuse when it is unhooked from a community of ritual practice and worship. It’s too easy to say “I'm spiritual” and therefore free of religious obligation. A bit too individualistic.
I do understand that the extremes in major religions (fundamentalist Christians, Ultra-Orthodox Jews, Jihadist Muslims) cause people to shrink from ALL religion, especially when a religion detaches from God and attaches to social agenda about which it becomes militant.
There is a growing group currently classified as the “nones.” (Yet I notice everyone loves the nuns-on-the-bus:) Still, extremisms do NOT represent religion in general; their spirituality is fueled by aggression, and their theology talks up God as the Divine Potentate-with-gavel who condemns to Hell.
Religion is what we do about what we give our hearts to.
Spirituality is what we feel deep down about what we give our hearts to.
Theology is how we speak and think about what we give our hearts to.
None stands alone.
In me, the best of religion and the best of spirituality "kiss" each other, as the Psalm says, when I am at my home altar mouthing and singing traditional religious prayers, many of them ancient, feeding myself with a snippet of Christ's "wafer-body," then uttering my personal prayers silently or aloud de profundis—and giving Jesus a kiss.
I wrote: “Oh, incidentally, I'm beginning to despise the word spiritual—so bleak and easy, avoidant and limp— though I understand its vogue.”
I dropped my gut feeling into the midst, and left it to hang there. A friend said: Pursue it.
I’m challenged to elaborate on what I would call the false dichotomy between religion and spirituality. I’ve occasionally said “I’m religious not spiritual” to provoke conversation, but that sounds about as silly to me the oft-heard current comment: “I’m spiritual but not religious.”
The Governor of Massachusetts at the interfaith service for young Sean Collier, the MIT policeman who was arbitrarily shot to death by the Tsarnaev brothers made reference to “our spiritual religion.” He was referring to some comforting words from a religious tradition. I was struck by the phrase "spiritual religion" and wondered if there was another kind of religion that wasn’t spiritual, like our civil religion.
When I was in seminary I took a course in American Religious History and well remember much discussion of the American civil religion, a way in which our country’s founding dreams and identity visions could be compared to a religion.
The word religion (from Latin re + ligare or ligio, to bind, a bond or reverence) and the word ligament (fibrous connective tissues that binds bones together and holds joints secure) come from the same root: ligare. To me this root connection suggests that religion can be connective as well as flexible, like a ligament. Religion is not supposed to be a tight leash but a sure support that holds me together especially in times of trouble, and that lets me stretch and grow to become the best woman and priest I can be.
Right now I am religious about my stretching exercises so my ligaments and muscles will support my bones and joints as I age. I am also religious because I am faithful to a power greater than myself I call God and to the community of practice I call Church. And sometimes I feel religious about my commitment to my country.
When Spirituality avoids Religion, it feels dissociated and, for me, comes up limping. It’s also seem to me to be quite diffuse when it is unhooked from a community of ritual practice and worship. It’s too easy to say “I'm spiritual” and therefore free of religious obligation. A bit too individualistic.
I do understand that the extremes in major religions (fundamentalist Christians, Ultra-Orthodox Jews, Jihadist Muslims) cause people to shrink from ALL religion, especially when a religion detaches from God and attaches to social agenda about which it becomes militant.
There is a growing group currently classified as the “nones.” (Yet I notice everyone loves the nuns-on-the-bus:) Still, extremisms do NOT represent religion in general; their spirituality is fueled by aggression, and their theology talks up God as the Divine Potentate-with-gavel who condemns to Hell.
Religion is what we do about what we give our hearts to.
Spirituality is what we feel deep down about what we give our hearts to.
Theology is how we speak and think about what we give our hearts to.
None stands alone.
In me, the best of religion and the best of spirituality "kiss" each other, as the Psalm says, when I am at my home altar mouthing and singing traditional religious prayers, many of them ancient, feeding myself with a snippet of Christ's "wafer-body," then uttering my personal prayers silently or aloud de profundis—and giving Jesus a kiss.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
2013.05.01 Sounds of Spring
Today a friend sent me a beautiful animated Happy Spring card. I listened to it twice and felt my day begin well.
Yes, it's May Day—day of resurrection life, day of emergency, someone needs help, and the old college chant: Hey, hey it's the first of May, outdoor f.....g begins today! Such a versatile holy day, no?
I adore Spring. I can't smell it, thanks to allergies that come with it, but I can see it and hear it—and most of all feel deeply into its heart where I heard a poem spring up.
Sounds of Spring
Thwack of fist
swish/crack of bat
thunk of ball
smack of mitt.
I hear it coming.
Batter batter batter
Run daddy run.
It’s spring.
A young teen sits alone shivering
in the bleachers
She cheers at full voice for her star-hitter boyfriend
but her eyes rivet to the ball:
tossed, smacked, cracked, and finally
disappeared.
And, in the name of the depth dimension we call soul and spirit, I know that neither joy nor sorrow are pure, nor do they last. Yet we are human and must feel them each and all. That is the gift and solace of what Christians call the Holy Spirit. She goes with us into the deep.
Yes, it's May Day—day of resurrection life, day of emergency, someone needs help, and the old college chant: Hey, hey it's the first of May, outdoor f.....g begins today! Such a versatile holy day, no?
I adore Spring. I can't smell it, thanks to allergies that come with it, but I can see it and hear it—and most of all feel deeply into its heart where I heard a poem spring up.
Sounds of Spring
Thwack of fist
swish/crack of bat
thunk of ball
smack of mitt.
I hear it coming.
Batter batter batter
Run daddy run.
It’s spring.
A young teen sits alone shivering
in the bleachers
She cheers at full voice for her star-hitter boyfriend
but her eyes rivet to the ball:
tossed, smacked, cracked, and finally
disappeared.
And, in the name of the depth dimension we call soul and spirit, I know that neither joy nor sorrow are pure, nor do they last. Yet we are human and must feel them each and all. That is the gift and solace of what Christians call the Holy Spirit. She goes with us into the deep.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
2013.04.28 Godde's a Flirt
I consider myself agnostic because I know I don't know God, yet I live in the paradox that the more I admit that I don't know, the more I seem to know.
Divinity, it seems, shoots shards of Soul into my flesh like an arrow and I feel suddenly intimate—and omniscient. And then it's gone, with a wink.
Just this morning I felt such a shard and called it passing hope. Twisting up the blinds in our bedroom window to catch the morning sunlight I was taken aback by the vision of our huge popcorn tree. (I call her that because of her Easter “bonnet”, though I don’t know her real name.)
Overnight, or so it seemed to my eye, the tree had popped. Every branch and sub-branch was loaded with blossom clusters, all pink-white. I thought of the first flowering of a young girl who sticks out her chest and feels, for a moment—omnipotent. Or the small five year old boy in the playground whizzing along on his scooter his red cape blowing behind him—superman almighty.
The burst won’t last, any more than movie popcorn shared while life reels on —but it’s enough.
I hope such experience, in which I do hear, or feel, a word I call God-in-me, is not romantic or facile or sentimental, but rather true. Anyway, it helps me move along, knowing and not knowing.
Oh, incidentally, I'm beginning to despise the word spiritual—so bleak and easy, avoidant and limp— though I understand its vogue.
Divinity, it seems, shoots shards of Soul into my flesh like an arrow and I feel suddenly intimate—and omniscient. And then it's gone, with a wink.
Just this morning I felt such a shard and called it passing hope. Twisting up the blinds in our bedroom window to catch the morning sunlight I was taken aback by the vision of our huge popcorn tree. (I call her that because of her Easter “bonnet”, though I don’t know her real name.)
Overnight, or so it seemed to my eye, the tree had popped. Every branch and sub-branch was loaded with blossom clusters, all pink-white. I thought of the first flowering of a young girl who sticks out her chest and feels, for a moment—omnipotent. Or the small five year old boy in the playground whizzing along on his scooter his red cape blowing behind him—superman almighty.
The burst won’t last, any more than movie popcorn shared while life reels on —but it’s enough.
I hope such experience, in which I do hear, or feel, a word I call God-in-me, is not romantic or facile or sentimental, but rather true. Anyway, it helps me move along, knowing and not knowing.
Oh, incidentally, I'm beginning to despise the word spiritual—so bleak and easy, avoidant and limp— though I understand its vogue.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
2013.04.24 What Are Prayers For?
Prayers are for anything that bursts forth from our heart, minds and lungs, whenever we are blasted from our complacency and moved to cry out ex profundis, from the deep.
To whom?
I dunno really. But I call my unknowing God, because I need to name the mystery. I need to feel my prayers connect; I need to feel heard, to believe I am heard,which is far more important to me than being answered.
When I worked at an alcohol/drug rehabilitation center in Connecticut I was the chaplain, the one in charge of spirituality. I felt ridiculous many days but I preached on and consoled patients and learned that anyone who tries to explain God will probably end up having to have their tongues surgically untwisted.
There was Johnnie who’d never heard of God. Well, close my mouth! Someone in the late 80s in this quite piously religious country who’d never heard of God?
After I talked myself blue with explanations I shut up and we sat silently together. Then I asked Johnnie if he had ever called out in anguish or joy. Yup, he said. Who did you think you were calling to? I asked. Oh, is that God? he said and grinned. I grinned too.
I don’t know what happened to Johnnie after he left treatment, sober and hopeful, believing he had a sense of God in his bag of tricks. But I know we prayed.
The first prayer uttered by many of us after the tragic events of Marathon Monday in Boston was Oh my God! Is that a prayer or a swear? I call it prayer. OMG is now the latest, p.c. way to exclaim astonishment or horror and every wonder in between.
OMG is an ejaculation that leaves us all pregnant with Compassion. It heals the habit of using theological language that divides the world into good/bad, worthy/unworthy, saved/unsaved. OMG such treason. We are one in prayer, an inner gift we all have, and none have never used.
Our prayers until now have been obvious. Now it is time, I think, for the less obvious prayer, the one I call the excorcistic vengeance prayer that cleans out our souls.
It’s time now to pray with the Tsarnaev family—all rent asunder. Their pain and grief is as real as ours, though we want to judge it as less noble. It’s not. And there is still a God who listens and provides inner strength to them as well as to us as Compassion is released into the world.
Would I have dared to say such things from a podium or pulpit in the wake of these criminal events? In a parish community, yes. Kneeling at my altar, yes. Sitting listening to birds outside, yes. For a national audience on TV? Probably, which is probably why I’m not one standing in such a public position.
Let us pray.
To whom?
I dunno really. But I call my unknowing God, because I need to name the mystery. I need to feel my prayers connect; I need to feel heard, to believe I am heard,which is far more important to me than being answered.
When I worked at an alcohol/drug rehabilitation center in Connecticut I was the chaplain, the one in charge of spirituality. I felt ridiculous many days but I preached on and consoled patients and learned that anyone who tries to explain God will probably end up having to have their tongues surgically untwisted.
There was Johnnie who’d never heard of God. Well, close my mouth! Someone in the late 80s in this quite piously religious country who’d never heard of God?
After I talked myself blue with explanations I shut up and we sat silently together. Then I asked Johnnie if he had ever called out in anguish or joy. Yup, he said. Who did you think you were calling to? I asked. Oh, is that God? he said and grinned. I grinned too.
I don’t know what happened to Johnnie after he left treatment, sober and hopeful, believing he had a sense of God in his bag of tricks. But I know we prayed.
The first prayer uttered by many of us after the tragic events of Marathon Monday in Boston was Oh my God! Is that a prayer or a swear? I call it prayer. OMG is now the latest, p.c. way to exclaim astonishment or horror and every wonder in between.
OMG is an ejaculation that leaves us all pregnant with Compassion. It heals the habit of using theological language that divides the world into good/bad, worthy/unworthy, saved/unsaved. OMG such treason. We are one in prayer, an inner gift we all have, and none have never used.
Our prayers until now have been obvious. Now it is time, I think, for the less obvious prayer, the one I call the excorcistic vengeance prayer that cleans out our souls.
It’s time now to pray with the Tsarnaev family—all rent asunder. Their pain and grief is as real as ours, though we want to judge it as less noble. It’s not. And there is still a God who listens and provides inner strength to them as well as to us as Compassion is released into the world.
Would I have dared to say such things from a podium or pulpit in the wake of these criminal events? In a parish community, yes. Kneeling at my altar, yes. Sitting listening to birds outside, yes. For a national audience on TV? Probably, which is probably why I’m not one standing in such a public position.
Let us pray.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
2013.04.21 Interfaith Faith
Yes, I watched the interfaith service at Holy Cross Cathedral in Boston last Thursday. And yes, I was moved to tears of both grief and joy. And yes, I was struck again about the energetic resurgence of religious vocabulary in our secularized culture at times of national catastrophe, in this case the holocaust of Marathon Monday in Boston, 2013.
Words like God, prayer, sacrament, blessing and many citations from scriptures abounded, led and modeled, in this situation and others, by our President Barack Obama—and he’s had more than his share of such occasions. Of course it was a religious service, therefore such language was natural, but it was also a civic commemoration, a collective funeral. Our civil “religion”emerged as strong and healthy as our spiritual religion. Is there a difference really?
A few things I loved.........
President Obama should have been a preacher. He took to the podium as if it were a pulpit, which it was. He cited verses from II Timothy 1:7 which are worth repeating here. Paul the apostle was encouraging his student and disciple for his mission to teach and proclaim the gospel of grace: “For God did not given us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” These are inner gifts available to us all.
Is there a call to turn to our faith traditions for solace, strength, and national invigoration? Could it be that God, whom many think of as omnipotent in the way the world understands power, is begging us to consider a new/old theological perception: Godde as love within?
The visual diversity was an astounding image. Many “minorities” in leadership.
Cardinal Sean O’Malley spoke with calm eloquence and offered a biblical insight: Crowd and community are often present but are not the same phenomenon. A crowd is a bunch of individuals grouped together, loosely or tightly, each individual invested in her/his own desires and interests. A community is also a bunch of individuals but these individuals derive their identity, meaning, purpose, and quality of life from being part of a community with a unifying vision. Marathoners and fans have formed community over the years—and a vision, without which the people perish. (Scripture again.)
The cello, played by the inimitably passionate Yoyo Ma, is the one singular instrument able to convey the pathos of such a time—mournful, melancholic, yet as deep and rich as soil and soul ready to receive new seeds of life. In the final phrase the melody grew faint, trailed reluctantly off, leaving and not leaving.
Nasser Wadeddy, Islamic interfaith activist for democracy and an American citizen by only one week, remembered his own terrifying experience with a bomb explosion on a road in Damascus, Syria. (Some will recall St. Paul’s encounter with Christ on a road in Damascus, a time when he began his turn away from violent persecutory ways. )
Closing Hymn: “American the Beautiful” based in beauty and grandeur of landscape, not military victory as was our national anthem.
And didn’t love.............
Extremism in any form, including a bit too much American positivism and can-do pride
The phrase: “This doesn’t happen in Boston!”
That there were many many more men than women up front—still, still
I heard no prayers uttered for the young male criminals
That people who "don't believe in organized religion" flock to God and the offerings of organized religion when something catastrophic and inexplicable happens yet never mention the sacred in other venues or give religion a voice in public conversations. Do people flock to cathedrals for political reasons, or for spiritual reasons?
This week Boston and the nation have traveled the arc from vibrant life through death and despair, into hope and hints of healing, and now the journey arcs forward into a climate of uncertainty, unsteadiness and wondering.
Yes, we will go on. Yes, nothing will be quite the same. The best way I know to assimilate the “new normal” is to find a community that is not a crowd.
Words like God, prayer, sacrament, blessing and many citations from scriptures abounded, led and modeled, in this situation and others, by our President Barack Obama—and he’s had more than his share of such occasions. Of course it was a religious service, therefore such language was natural, but it was also a civic commemoration, a collective funeral. Our civil “religion”emerged as strong and healthy as our spiritual religion. Is there a difference really?
A few things I loved.........
President Obama should have been a preacher. He took to the podium as if it were a pulpit, which it was. He cited verses from II Timothy 1:7 which are worth repeating here. Paul the apostle was encouraging his student and disciple for his mission to teach and proclaim the gospel of grace: “For God did not given us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” These are inner gifts available to us all.
Is there a call to turn to our faith traditions for solace, strength, and national invigoration? Could it be that God, whom many think of as omnipotent in the way the world understands power, is begging us to consider a new/old theological perception: Godde as love within?
The visual diversity was an astounding image. Many “minorities” in leadership.
Cardinal Sean O’Malley spoke with calm eloquence and offered a biblical insight: Crowd and community are often present but are not the same phenomenon. A crowd is a bunch of individuals grouped together, loosely or tightly, each individual invested in her/his own desires and interests. A community is also a bunch of individuals but these individuals derive their identity, meaning, purpose, and quality of life from being part of a community with a unifying vision. Marathoners and fans have formed community over the years—and a vision, without which the people perish. (Scripture again.)
The cello, played by the inimitably passionate Yoyo Ma, is the one singular instrument able to convey the pathos of such a time—mournful, melancholic, yet as deep and rich as soil and soul ready to receive new seeds of life. In the final phrase the melody grew faint, trailed reluctantly off, leaving and not leaving.
Nasser Wadeddy, Islamic interfaith activist for democracy and an American citizen by only one week, remembered his own terrifying experience with a bomb explosion on a road in Damascus, Syria. (Some will recall St. Paul’s encounter with Christ on a road in Damascus, a time when he began his turn away from violent persecutory ways. )
Closing Hymn: “American the Beautiful” based in beauty and grandeur of landscape, not military victory as was our national anthem.
And didn’t love.............
Extremism in any form, including a bit too much American positivism and can-do pride
The phrase: “This doesn’t happen in Boston!”
That there were many many more men than women up front—still, still
I heard no prayers uttered for the young male criminals
That people who "don't believe in organized religion" flock to God and the offerings of organized religion when something catastrophic and inexplicable happens yet never mention the sacred in other venues or give religion a voice in public conversations. Do people flock to cathedrals for political reasons, or for spiritual reasons?
This week Boston and the nation have traveled the arc from vibrant life through death and despair, into hope and hints of healing, and now the journey arcs forward into a climate of uncertainty, unsteadiness and wondering.
Yes, we will go on. Yes, nothing will be quite the same. The best way I know to assimilate the “new normal” is to find a community that is not a crowd.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
2013.04.17 What To Do In the Valley of the Shadow of Death?
Hold hands.
The Boston Marathon tragedy has many complex facets and remains incomprehensibly tragic. Even so, we seek actions, answers, and accountability. The fact is that there isn’t much to do but pray and hold hands and wait as more data roll in to enlighten. Enlightenment, however, is only half the truth, holiness the other. What happens in such holocausts is not reasonable, or explicable. It is only healed by love and borne in faith.
“Reason is the soul’s left hand, and faith her right, by these we reach divinity.” John Donne
Right now we are summoning every reasonable resource we can to understand. As tomorrows accumulate, faith will clasp onto the hand of reason as together they unite to help us go on living and loving.
The soul that does not value human life is stunted; and the soul that does not value divine life is equally disabled.
One day the lion and the lamb will lie down together, and "a little child will lead them," according to the Old Testament prophet Isaiah (11:6) A little one, perhaps like Martin Richard below, who died as the result of the bomb explosions at the marathon on Boston's celebration of Patriots Day. Will we follow?
The Boston Marathon tragedy has many complex facets and remains incomprehensibly tragic. Even so, we seek actions, answers, and accountability. The fact is that there isn’t much to do but pray and hold hands and wait as more data roll in to enlighten. Enlightenment, however, is only half the truth, holiness the other. What happens in such holocausts is not reasonable, or explicable. It is only healed by love and borne in faith.
“Reason is the soul’s left hand, and faith her right, by these we reach divinity.” John Donne
Right now we are summoning every reasonable resource we can to understand. As tomorrows accumulate, faith will clasp onto the hand of reason as together they unite to help us go on living and loving.
The soul that does not value human life is stunted; and the soul that does not value divine life is equally disabled.
One day the lion and the lamb will lie down together, and "a little child will lead them," according to the Old Testament prophet Isaiah (11:6) A little one, perhaps like Martin Richard below, who died as the result of the bomb explosions at the marathon on Boston's celebration of Patriots Day. Will we follow?
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