The toxic fumes were heavy, the traffic funereally light. I rode my bicycle up New York’s Tenth Avenue and cut in toward the church. In my backpack I had a Jerusalem Bible and a Kryptonite lock. Around my neck I had a yellow T-shirt, pulled up over my nose and mouth as though I were a pirate, not a lay preacher trying to find a few hundred words for catastrophe.
I was on the way to the weekly meeting of the Community of Sant’...
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