IT'S JUST YOU AND YOUR CAPPUCINO, musing together, divining dreams in the foam. Then Religion finds you. He comes with all the appearance of friendship and with the high noble front of spirituality. So, with a smile you offer him a place at your table. He’s affable enough, sharp, quick, but a little too ready for a contest of words or ideology. He's right and he knows he's right. He comes to sell, to put his order first. He is surrendered only to that. You are second, a prize, an enlistment, a trophy to be won. His agenda, which is inflexible and intolerant, will not hide for long and eventually the inevitable happens, as it must when Religion sits at your table—lines emerge. Dividing ones. Argument raises its voice. You are either ally or enemy. Nothing more. Religion proves himself but a tiresome guest. He’s an argument and I think he's rather silly. A whirlwind has just passed and you notice your cup has cooled in your hands.
In Christ, Who champions me, silence in the throat of argument, Amen
