Cucumber Conflict

In Saturday’s National Post newspaper there was a full-page ad by the Jewish social justice organization called B’nai Brith. Its headline asked why the United Church of Canada is against Israeli cucumbers. Apparently there is much discussion among UCC leaders about a proposal to boycott products that come from Jewish settlements in territory whose ownership is violently disputed with Palestinians. Evidently the Jewish Canadians in B’nai Brith don’t think that Canadian Christians should criticize Israel’s actions.

Since I attend a United Church and have a Jewish daughter and son-in-law (not to mention their baby boy, my adorable grandson) I was very interested in this advertisement. What a strange sensation I had looking at an ad that costs thousands of dollars published with the goal of criticizing my church by folks who purport to protect my precious Jewish grandson.  

But of course I already knew that there is nothing simple about the relationship between Christians and Jews (and Muslims).

The history and current details of the issues in the Middle East, especially, are convoluted and tragic. Anyone who hopes for peace in the Middle East weeps with longing.

But what about here, within the Canadian community and within my family? 

After seeing Saturday’s ad, it was reassuring to attend a worship service this morning at my local United Church.
 The minister happened to be preaching about the ancient, revered Jewish king, David. We heard about David’s shocking rebellion against God’s moral law in committing adultery with Bathsheba and then ensuring the death of her husband in battle. Shortly afterward, the godly prophet, Nathan, confronted the king with his evil behaviour, and David had the insight and humility to repent of his sin. His change in direction, his conversion, so to speak, is reflected in Psalm 51.  It is a wrenching cry from a broken heart for God's help.

As Jesus confirmed, none of us is without sin. An attitude of blind self-righteousness can cause deadly destruction. We all need to depend on God’s merciful forgiveness and to keep setting our feet back on the right path.

After the service I took out the page of newspaper and discussed the ad with some folks at church. Shaking our heads in grief at this public conflict between Jews and Christians in Canada, we talked about the human responsibility so clearly described in Micah 6: 

“Act justly, love mercy, walk humbly with God”

We reminded each other that not every Canadian Jew, nor even every Israeli, agrees with every Israeli action. Nor does every member of the UCC agree with every other member or their leaders (as if). As I joked with one friend, “even in a family people don’t agree”

She laughed, “I don’t even always agree with myself!”

Let’s refuse to be drawn by any group-think. Let’s educate ourselves and listen to those who disagree with us. And beyond that, let’s persevere in admitting our own failures. May we uphold justice but never give it prominence over humility and mercy.  And let’s continue to hope for true peace, “for with God, all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26).

Free Refreshments

A drink of cold water during a long hike; a soapy shower after sweaty work; a comfy mattress at the end of a tiring day – ahhh, what a feeling. 

The word, “refresh”, implies the renewal of an original freshness, like fresh clean sheets for a sick-bed, the fresh start we need after failure, a breath of fresh air during intermission, a fresh sheet of paper. Refreshment means a return to the way things should be.

We talk about the delicious aroma of fresh bread, describe the feeling of “fresh as a daisy” and depend for our lives on (what should not be the luxury of) fresh drinking water. We perk up even when it’s announced that there will be free refreshments. These are such beckoning, attractive words: fresh, refreshing, refreshments.

The sad truth is that instead of feeling repeatedly refreshed, we’re often overwhelmed by the reality of human suffering, the countless reports of evil, and our own life’s daily dose of frustration and disappointment. The miasma of cultural negativity clouds our view of new beauty, refreshing honesty, inspiring acts of compassion. Instead of embracing each fresh day, we sometimes see life as “shop-worn, stale, sour, decayed, spoiled, contaminated, polluted, soiled, worn-out, impaired, faded”, the dictionary’s antonyms for “fresh”:

Beneath our culture’s grumpy moans, I’m hearing Jesus via Van Morrison, “Didn’t I come to bring you a sense of wonder?”

I remember the famous testimony, “Even when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, God, like a good shepherd, refreshes my soul as if I were a sheep browsing in green fields beside quiet waters”.

Refreshment: three year old, blonde Amelia, following the painted labyrinth path at High Park for the very first time, dancing and marching out her own meditation, stopping at will to pick up a pebble or a feather. She carefully stayed between the orange lines until she made it to the labyrinth’s centre. Then, with nary a qualm, she decided she was done and crossed every single line to walk back to her mother. 

Refreshment : the breath of a breeze on a day of record-breaking heat as new friends shared a backyard barbecue. 

Refreshment - quinoa salad made for the first time, combining all the fresh vegetables from that morning’s farmer’s market with chopped fresh basil and a dressing of garlic, olive oil and lemon juice – yum! 

Refreshment: relief from an electric fan in a hot church lounge where three friends took turns reading some bible verses, and then chose a favourite word from the short passage in Philemon, words like, “confident”, “benefit” and “refresh”. They sat in silence to mull over what they’d read, listened for the Spirit’s still small voice, and left the room with fresh hope in their hearts. 

Refreshment: a small rectangle of shade cast by a downtown Toronto building on a baking July afternoon, refuge during the two-minute wait for the red traffic light to turn green.

Refreshment: A “Fringe Festival” show without swearing, vulgarity, violence or perversion. The performers, a young married couple, danced, told stories and played piano as they related their families’ history. One dance was a wrenching solo about a younger brother, drug-addicted and homeless. Another was a powerful yet gentle, gymnastic pas de deux in which the two spouses supported each other’s bodies, suspended in perfect balance as they slowly changed positions. The pair performed another charming ballet of love in which he played the piano as she danced flirtatiously behind his back, across his lap, eventually striking some discordant keys to make him stop his music and kiss her instead. At the end of the show, the husband left the stage and the wife promised us a little surprise. Back out he came with their sweet baby boy, making the whole audience sigh with fresh joy.

Refreshment – standing near a river’s edge, lined by weeping willow trees, watching athletic young counsellors sing a song to help the “Coyote Camp” kids begin their wilderness day with music and a group howl. 

Is this part of what Jesus meant when he said:

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, 

and I will give you rest.

Whoever drinks the water I give them 

will never thirst. 

Indeed, the water I give them 

will become in them a spring of water 

welling up to eternal life.”

Whether we need a fresh start, fresh strength or fresh hope, there is a standing invitation. 

A Bigger House

When I step out my front door for a walk in our comfy old Toronto neighbourhood one of my habitual laments (yes, there’s more than one – don’t get me started on dog owners) stems from passing so many construction projects. During the 1940’s a building boom replaced the former market orchards in this part of the GTA with hundreds of two bedroom bungalows. I know this will shock you but they were designed with just one bathroom per house. Imagine! 

Apparently very few homebuyers these days consider a house like mine liveable, (even though mine, I admit, now has two bathrooms). On every block there are workers tearing down bungalows and in-filling with mansions like the one across from mine. On a similar–sized lot to mine, the new house is huge, its larger footprint accommodating four bedrooms and five bathrooms. Three people live there. Why are we so lustful for "More" and "Bigger" to the extent of destroying our beautiful planet with excessive development?
(Just a sec - I've got to go change the temperature setting on my air conditioner.)

Recently I came across a quote that I hope will redeem my perspective the next time I look at my neighbour's house or stroll by another infill. Sometimes bigger is better.

 During the early part of the 20^th century, some Christians made concerted attempts to bring international unity among Christians, hoping that they could overcome the many divisive doctrines and issues, focussing instead on their common commitment to following Jesus Christ. Other Christians, however, refused to join new organizations like the International Missionary Council and the later World Council of Churches.

In this context Dr. William Paton, Gen. Secretary of the National Christian Council of India wrote a piece where he referred to Colossians 1:13 – 18 (excerpt at bottom of this post) and wrote the following that caught my eye:

“We know, … that it is in Jesus

that the whole universal order of things consists or holds

together. Those who have come to know that, know in consequence

that they are in their Father's house. It is a big house, and

they have begun to explore only a little of it. It has great

reaches, and some of them are still shadowy. But it is His

house, all of it.” (emphasis mine)

Paton was lamenting the way that some Christ followers metaphorically keep drawing up plans for smaller houses with good security so that none of those “other” people can think they belong inside.

Here’s a story (author unknown) about the same idea from the useful website, http://www.crosswalk.com.

This well-known story comes from the annals of World War II. It took place over fifty years ago, but it is as relevant today. Near the end of the war a soldier was killed. Five of his comrades set out to bury him. They saw a little church down the road and asked to bury their friend in that little church graveyard.

The priest asked, “Was your friend a Catholic?”

 “No.”

 “I'm really sorry, but this is a Catholic church and this is a Catholic graveyard.”

Downhearted, they stepped just outside the fence, dug a grave, and laid their friend to rest.

The next morning, they received orders to leave the area. They returned to the church for one parting farewell. But, they couldn't find the grave. Finally, they knocked on the door and said to the priest,

 “We know we buried our buddy over here outside the fence, but we can't find his grave. Can you help us?”

The priest replied, “I sat up the first part of the night feeling sorry for what I said to you. I spent the second part of the night moving the fence.”

The priest had caught a glimpse of God’s big house.

A chorus from the United Church’s “Voices United” likewise urges us to expand our living space:

“Draw the circle wide; draw it wider still. 

Let this be our song! No one stands alone.

Standing side by side, draw the circle wide.”

Another song about wider circles comes to mind, a cheesy old pop tune by “The Captain and Tennille”. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to discover what I carry in my memory so I’ll post here the more respectable poem on which Toni Tennille’s lyrics were based:

“He drew a circle that shut me out

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout

But love and I had the wit to win

We drew a circle that took him in.”

                          (Edwin Markham)

Dear Reader, whatever the metaphor, houses or circles, may we heed Paton’s reminder that Love's circle is greater, and God's house is bigger; all of life belongs to God. 

“We look at [Jesus] and see the God who cannot be seen. We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible,…everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment”. (Colossians 1:15 ff The Message)

Bless You!

We say it when folks sneeze and we say it when we don’t know what else to say and many use the phrase as an email sign off , “Blessings”. On this particular Wednesday, I didn’t have a cold but I needed a blessing.

"Blessing" is such an old-fashioned word and it can sound smarmy, or lack any meaning in the same  way that “How are you?” is often an empty gesture of politeness. Let me tell you how on this day, for a moment, the word “blessed” felt profound.

It was a gorgeous June morning on Lake Ontario, sunny and warm enough for summer clothes but breezy enough to keep me cool as I walked . The lake was the classic blue we think of when we imagine a lake. The sky was literally “sky-blue”, a lighter shade. Walking along the gravel paths between meadows of wildflowers and waving grasses, I kept thinking of the late John Denver’s ,“Annie’s Song”, and sang to the plants around me the one line I know, “You fill up my senses like a night in the forest”. Denver wrote its lyrics as a love song to a woman, but for me it was a mantra of  thanksgiving to the Creator of nature’s delights. Along the way I passed huge mounds of wild rose bushes, whose deep pink blooms rewarded my face-to-face sniffing with sweet perfume. Delicious!

I stopped at the Trans-Canada Trail pavilion that houses the names of hundreds of Toronto donors because I wanted to visit my name inscribed on the “Toronto #3” plaque - a thoughtful gift from two dear friends when I turned 50. I felt grateful for my friends and also for the thousands of other Canadians who try to preserve and renew our country’s natural beauty.

When I started to tire, I snuck down an overgrown path to the small labyrinth painted on asphalt beside the Humber River. It’s in an obscure corner near the eastern base of the dramatically arching foot-bridge that spans the river’s mouth. I wondered how to thank whoever approved and painted the circling lines for this meditation tool of labyrinth walking. I stood in the little circle at the labyrinth’s heart, looking past the stone retaining wall to some geese paddling by on the lake. I named aloud some friends and family, trying somehow to remind God to look after them (what would S/He do without me?)

One of the ways I use labyrinths when I reach their centres is to stand facing each direction in turn so that I can see from different perspectives. At one point I found myself looking up at the runners, bikers and strollers crossing the bridge. It was  heart-gladdening to see so many enjoying the outdoors even on a Wednesday morning. 

Ironically, although I hadn’t seen a single butterfly on my walk through the Humber Bay Butterfly Garden, here, three species fluttered in, one white, one yellow and an orange and black monarch. My ornery heart swelled with praise.

After slurping up some cold fountain water, I started back to the car. I smiled with yet more pleasure when I came across an open-air art gallery! Some of God’s adult children had discovered free toys lying around beside the lake. They’d constructed dozens of sculptures, made from stones and driftwood. Some were mounted precariously on top of the lakeside boulders, providing the sight of sticks and rocks balancing against the blue sky.

Further along I saw a man in runners’ clothes, apparently taking a break as he sat on one of the huge rocks that line parts of the pathway. He gazed at the lake, sparkling in sunshine. As I passed, I said without thinking, “We’re so blessed, aren’t we?” In the next split second I worried that I'd blurted out something weirdly religious, so I was cheered when he smiled and warmly replied, “We sure are!”

Maybe there’s no other English word that sums up the experience of enjoying life’s good gifts, gifts that we didn’t earn and don’t especially deserve.

TV’s Tammy Faye Baker used to sing through her mascara-dyed tears, “We’re blessed, we’re blessed, we’re blessed, we’re blessed, we’re ble-e-essed.”

The simple song had no words other than that one affirming sentence, repeated over and over.

Dear Reader, may you enjoy on this day all that God has provided.

Blessings.

Pink Fairyland

For a few minutes last week I felt like I was in fairyland. Every year I set aside time for the “Hot Docs” festival in Toronto; I see as many as I can during the daytime hours when those of us over 60 get in free. The documentary films show a kaleidoscope of human experiences, most of them foreign to my own. 


I watched one story about two American men who spent every available hour fly-fishing in Oregon, the Gulf of Mexico and in northern B.C. The scenery was pleasing but their one-note obsession puzzled me. Where were their spouses, their jobs, never mind the nearest bathroom? 

Another film featured a man who held a similar depth of passion, but for not for fishing. He was a skateboarder in California. In his 30’s, at the top of his sport, he found sponsors who paid for an expensive, giant ramp to be built so that he could jump the Great Wall of China. Like the fishermen's, his life's focus was a curiosity to this Toronto girl, and at the same time, very interesting, especially after I heard about his childhood losses. 

One documentary camera recorded a memorial trip taken by a British ventriloquist who filmed herself, alone in her motel room, having a bedtime “discussion” with her favourite puppet! She was attending an American convention of ventriloquists (yup) and had brought with her from England several puppets she’d inherited from her deceased mentor. She was grieving his death and trying to decide whether to give up her peculiar artform.

And then there were the stories of five individuals who protested injustice, each in their own context, from circumstances as different as the awards ceremony at the Olympic Games in Mexico City, a children's protest march against school fees in Chile, and a church's prayer service in communist East Berlin. These reports portrayed courage and discouragement, decisions that led to miraculous success or unexpected after effects. 

The films were fascinating and stimulating glimpses into lives I couldn't have imagined. It’s always a little disorienting to leave a dark theatre and walk outside into daylight, but after watching these works I felt like I was changing worlds when I exited.

The most moving documentary was a ghastly story about the kind of child-neglect and abuse that turns some foster children into twisted perpetrators of violence. In the middle of the horror, astonishing love persisted, but the suffering by all parties was hardly bearable, even to watch. I cried most of the way through “My Name is Faith”. I met the movie’s precious young hero and her brave, though battered, adoptive parents. Why would I watch a true story like Faith’s? That same week, in an odd conjunction of word usages, I happened to read Evelyn Underhill’s quote,
“ Faith is not a refuge from reality. It is a demand that we face reality, with all its difficulties, opportunities, and implications.” 

What happened to fairyland? Here's the other half of the picture.
One of the challenges at festivals is making your choices among the many worthy but conflicting options. The show times are staggered and the venues blocks apart; your schedule gets ragged. Between screenings one day, I had an hour to wait. I bought a frozen yogurt from a hoity-toity Yorkville store and thought I’d sit streetside and tune out the city’s lunchtime hustle. My eye was suddenly caught by an ethereal dreamscape. 


In between a wall of expensive stores and the traffic on Cumberland Ave. there’s an unusual park. Almost a block in length, the park includes a house-sized hump of rock representing the Canadian Shield, a boardwalk through swampy triangles of reeds and a pretty grove of paper-birch trees, but my focus was on none of these. 


I found myself staring at a pastel pink carpet of petals. It looked fantastical, spread before me. I stopped dead, spoon halfway to my mouth. Under a canopy of cherry trees lay a flagstone walkway, dappled with the sunshine that filtered through new spring leaves. Sleek, purple-feathered pigeons with their funky red feet pecked their way back and forth amid the pinkness and dancing light. I felt like I'd wandered into  fairyland. Traffic noise faded. I stood there, stilled by my awe at the beauty – a perfect mix of sun and shadow, delicate springtime tints that could be named "Orchid" and "Cloud", an artwork of peace and calm. I breathed it in like perfume and fresh air; I consumed the vision like a satisfying meal. My soul relaxed.

Faith in God “demands” that I face reality - painful puzzles in one hand, pink petals in the other.

A Tale of One City...and One Family

It was the best of times,

it was the worst of times,

it was the age of wisdom,

it was the age of foolishness,

it was the epoch of belief,

it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light,

it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope,

it was the winter of despair,

we had everything before us,

we had nothing before us,

we were all going direct to Heaven,

we were all going direct the other way-

It’s maybe just a wee bit melodramatic to begin this family story with reference to Dickens’ classic introduction to his Tale of Two Cities, but on scales large and small, life’s contrasts keep smacking me in the face.

 San Diego is a sprawling city filled with sights to see and things to do. We were naïve to choose it as a place to spend a week with extended family, especially for family members who hadn’t been there before and don’t have the money to travel often. Imagine the fun of making group decisions with 7 adults and four children from ages 2 to 8. The texting was frenzied and tempers frayed as plans for every hour of six days couldn’t possibly cover all the options. 

Here are a few that we enjoyed.

Besides its famous zoo and the natural beauty of ocean and coast, San Diego offers everything from a tour of the naval aircraft carrier, “The Midway”, to the playful children’s areas of music, construction and an alphabet "Smelling Garden" at the SD Botanical Gardens. We squeezed in a run through the La Jolla Gallery of Modern Art and dinner at a clichéd Mexican restaurant, with its mariachi band and hand-painted tiles. We screamed on the roller coaster and Tilt-a-Whirl at one of California’s many beachside amusement parks where our youngest had his first experience of a merry-go-round.  (Every time the music stopped and the ride slowed, the baby said, “More?” I may have broken the grandmother record for the most rounds. I actually started to feel a little nauseated after about the tenth time of going in circles atop an ostrich.) 

We watched surfers of all ages and both genders on several beaches and gasped at fields of white crosses in a military cemetery.

It was educational to visit the annual Chicano Park Day, near the Mexican border. This community is fighting to retain their piece of parkland where the city insists on highways, so they have painted giant political and historical murals on the overpass' cement support towers. Another colourful feature of their culture is the astonishing low-rider cars, customised to the extreme, some upholstered in pink fur, some with trunks full of wooden cabinetry, every engine gleaming spotlessly with polished chrome. They modify these vehicles so that each wheel can lift up in the air independently on hydraulic springs and when you see them in motion, the cars virtually dance around street corners.

Our week in San Diego/La Jolla was as full of contrasts as Dickens’ quote, the best and the worst.

During all of the activity above, there were many joyful and loving moments but the stress level was sky-high for every one of us, even our obliging and patient sons-in-law. I don’t know about your family but in my family (three generations) we have different tastes in food, different interests re tourist options and we make different choices in the way we spend money. Don’t even ask about personalities. Spontaneous or organized, leisurely or quick, we’ve got them all. My daughters are even weird enough to want to spend holiday time shopping! Can you imagine?!

I, on the other hand, gazed longingly at seaside benches, churches and a meditation garden as we whizzed by them in our caravan of rental cars.  

Needless to say, the children’s needs for food, sleep and physical play dominated our schedule, (It’s time for another nap already?) but oh what fun and delight they added. The little ones squealed with the risky adventure of jumping an approaching ocean wave, hands tightly clasped by Mom or Grandad. We adults would likely have avoided the freezing Pacific were it not for the children. In case you’ve forgotten, it is in fact thrilling to jump over or flee in a panic the unpredictable waves – lots of wet shoes and pant-legs. The older boys practiced ‘boogie’ boarding and hunted for special stones and shells. All four of the children spent as long as they were allowed getting filthy in the sand. No better toys than dirt and water, free from Earth’s Creator. 

At two state parks we spied wild rabbits, small lizards doing push-ups and crazy crabs that scramble around on the cliffs fifteen feet above water at low tide. At our rental house we were wakened each morning by a real live mocking bird. We researched it to be certain and were amazed at its multiple kinds of songs.

Despite our constant conflict (good name for an herbal tea) every one of us persisted in trying again to restore harmony and justice in our little group. Grace trumped our human limitations and I am so grateful.  Personally, I give God's Spirit full credit for so much patience and forgiveness among tired, busy people. I hardly yelled at anybody... not that much.... well, only at my husband...and he's used to it.

In retrospect, we highly recommend San Diego, CA, but I’m thinking that our next family trip will be to an all-inclusive resort far, far away from the nearest city. And it may not happen for a while.

Fresh Fruit

A single woman has a wild and woolly holiday in Mexico, throwing caution to the winds, but while she’s there, she remembers her friend in Toronto who loves making parties for her grandchildren, so she returns with a package of multi-coloured paper cutouts on a string, perfect for backyard decoration. 

Generosity.

A mentally disabled man approaches a friend enthusiastically on Easter Sunday. He loves hugging but just before contact he remembers that not everyone always wants his hugs. He catches himself, puts down his arms and reaches out for a handshake instead. “Happy Easter!” they both say warmly. 

Self-control.

An older woman retreats to a church washroom to hide her teary eyes. A twelve-year-old girl is there. They are acquaintances. The woman wipes her eyes and smiles, asking, “What do you do to try to stop crying?” 

The young one thinks, and then says, 

“I don’t know - I just cry.”  

“But what about everybody noticing you’ve been crying?” 

“Oh, I splash water on my face and then dry it off.”

“Great idea – I forgot about that trick!”

The shaken woman bends over a small sink and feels cold water washing away evidence of her vulnerability. She is grateful for the child’s advice. 

Kindness.

A senior financial executive, middle-aged, male, and furiously busy, is annoyed when he hears that someone questioned his recent decision. He fires off an email of stern disapproval. The recipient, a stranger, expresses shock and hurt at his criticism, asking to meet in person. He agrees. He is defensive, but listens long and hard. He softens, and offers new understanding and appreciation. The meeting ends with a sincere and hopeful prayer. 

Peace.

She'd had a stressful day. Firstly, there had been a personal conflict on FaceBook and she felt worried about her far-away relative. They'd had to agree by email to let the issue lie and reaffirm their friendship. Secondly, the phone rang and she had to go immediately to sit beside a dying man who would soon be leaving behind six young children. She sat with eyes closed and quietly sang the 23rd psalm. At the same time, she felt anxious for resolution to a painful situation at her church.

When she lies, exhausted, on the couch at the end of the day, her husband goes out on errands and brings home her favourite snack.

Faithfulness.

A 2^nd Grader hands his grandparents a folded piece of lined notebook paper. Thirteen words take up five lines of carefully written “cursive” script. It is a thank you note for Easter cupcakes and sticker books. How long did the child labour over these huge, perfectly spaced letters?

Love.

Slowly, so slowly they drive along the busy street. Stuck behind them in the same lane, you follow, hoping to get through the intersection before the green light turns yellow. Their rear right-turn signal begins to flash. They hesitate at the corner, and then stop, waiting for a pedestrian who might to be about to step off the far curb and may eventually get to the place where he could cross paths with their car. You keep your foot on the brake, halted. The traffic light in front of you turns red as they slowly, slowly make their turn. You don’t honk your horn.

Patience.

Cherry blossoms grow by the thousands on dozens of gnarly old trees, their branches and trunks, twisted limbs with rough grey skin, spreading delicate creamy-pink flowers across a cloudless azure sky. Bright lime-green willow leaves, freshly sprung, sweep low in the wind over a pond's grey water. Passers-by look and linger.

Joy.

“The acts of the lower nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like… 

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”                                    (Chapter 5, Galatians, the Bible)


How luscious is the fresh fruit 
of Christ’s Spirit 
in this rancid world. 


P.S. for nitpicking bible-thumpers only. Where is my example of the remaining name for the fruit of the Spirit, “Gentleness”? Well, “gentleness” describes the way I’m treating myself for not coming up with a ninth true story before I post this.