We are each of us a member of a complicated, expansive web.

Like a fly, we are caught in its sticky filaments, and each objection we raise with wiggling thorax and flutters of useless wings reverberate through all threads are felt in the

farthest corners. You know, here's an example. Last week, Congregant Justine Diego Woznik was doing

some home repairs, and she got distracted by a cockroach. It was on her shoulder. Oh, yuck! And wouldn't you know it,

she drilled a number 12 size screw into the palm of her hand. Yowch! Instead of hanging a curtain rod,

she hung her own dang mitt. Well, her actions spread through the community.

Her mother, a wilting amnesiac, was never picked up from her doctor's appointment.

The doctor had to lock the mother inside the building all night.

The mother found the stock of anti-venom, and in a fit, swallowed each vial, a gulp-gulp.

So yesterday, when snakes overran the story preschool and did leave pairs of weeping puncture wounds and all our wailing tops,

whose fault was it? We had no anti-venom for the smallest congregants.

That's right. That gosh darn roach! Ha, ha, ha, ha! But it was Justine Diego Woznik who really paid the price. Oh, how the web of story reaches, and what duty we might have to decipher its weaving, so the story might inflict punishment most profound.

Justine is still dangling by her pall.

Oh, get me out of here.

Because as we say, the story must be told.

The story must be told.

And now a psalm from the wisest of the story family.

Ooh, Sister Callista.

Chicken, cow, lamb, fish, laundry, toothpaste, dish detergent, deodorant, dress shirts, pressed pants, belts, shoes.

I have forsaken these. I have forsaken the animals I eat. I have forsaken

cleanliness. I have forsaken clothes. I have decided to live in filth. If I eat, it will be dirt,

broken glass, or filth entire. If I eat, it will be dirt, broken glass, or filth entire.

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