It was a dry Sunday morning, like so many dry Sunday mornings before it, dry, not wet, not

quite noon on a day in between Saturday and Monday. It never ceases to amaze me.

How people cannot figure out what I'm trying to tell them without me having to say it

back to them 40 ways to Sunday.

Sunday mornings, that is, dry ones, like today.

Hello?

But I can't be bothered by hyperbole. I'm Rank Macbatten, Faith Detective, and Sundays are my jam.

Just don't invite me to go water skiing with you or watch football because I'm a faith detective not a non-faith detective.

It's right there in my name.

Hey Glenn. I think you mean rank whatever isn't this Mike Tanahills like favorite talk of all time

You're talking about the seven deadly heresies aren't you?

Yeah, I knew a Mike Tanahill once.

Plump, Persnickety, a fellow faith detective,

purposely non-particular, the kind of faith detective who chases any kind of rabbit

down any kind of hole and comes up smelling roses every single time. Except of course for the times when he doesn't, which are many.

Ask him what he thinks and he punts into the scriptures.

Not to suggest that he doesn't think, it's just the oldest faith detective trick in the book.

When in doubt, grab a rose-scented glade plug in and rub it all over whatever hole you just crawled out of.

And pray the pungent parfume precludes pursuant problems, perceived, or otherwise.

And when you're backed into an intellectual corner, just chuckle.

It's what we faith detectives do.

As a matter of fact, I remember the very first case we ever worked on together, Mike Tanahill and I, the curious case of the Abrahamic covenant, and it went a little

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