Holiness has most often been revealed to me in the exquisite pun of the first syllable, in holes-in not enough help, in brokenness, mess. High holy places, with ethereal sounds and stained-glass, can massage my illusion of holiness, but in holes and lostness I can pick up the light of small ordinary progress, newly made moments flecked like pepper into the slog and the disruptions.

Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith