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Domicile
Plan. They're all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because
they're going to pay for the plan with their tax dollars. But they want to see
those dollars well spent. Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem--like giving
a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound."
    God, he's good,
Dan thought. And he means every word. He truly wants to help. That's what makes
him so convincing. But he's still wrong!
    "I
couldn't agree more," Dan said, "but concentration camps aren't a
moral alternative."
    Senator
Crenshaw's eyes flashed with sudden anger.
    "You're
handy with the loaded terms, aren't you, Father. And I'm sure you have a real
talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you
ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their
shelter? Or your own, for that matter? Have you ever
labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed
them? Or yourself? Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their
clothing? Or for your own? If you want to be a man of God, then limit your
concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get
out and sweat with them, Father. Until you do, you're nothing but a middleman,
trafficking in their troubles. A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting
yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar.
Which is fine, if that's the way you want to spend your life. This is still a
free country. But don't block the way of those who really want to help."
    Dan was stunned
by the quiet tirade. Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and
stepped into his waiting limo. His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan
with a smirk on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.
    Someone patted
him gently on the shoulder. Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger
standing next to him.
    "Don't
take it too hard, Father. We all know you mean well. But you just ain't getting
it done."
    Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator
Crenshaw's limo pull away. On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he
was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. Crenshaw's words had cut deep, right to the
heart of his deepest doubts.
    And the elderly
stranger had twisted the knife.
    . . . you
just ain 't getting it done . . .

    KnowingI was notfit for the company of other men, I
turned frommy southward course and
searched the wilderness for a place in which to spend my allotted days alone.
    I wandered the deserted
hills, searching for a sign. Finally as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up
and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge. The letter tav leaped
into my mind. Tav. . .the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value
of 400. . .highest of all the letters.
    This was the sign I had
sought. This is where I would stay. The lowest huddling in the shadow of the
highest.
    from the Glass
scroll
    Rockefeller Museum translation

    4

    Emilio Sanchez
regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.
    If only I could use words like that, he thought. I would not have
to be a guard dog. I could be anything . . . even a senador.
    But Emilio had
come to terms long ago with who he was . . . and what he was. He was a
guard dog. He would always be a guard dog. And with those facts in mind, he had
become the best damn guard dog in the world.
    "You
sliced up that padre like a master chef, Senador. One would
almost think your words were planned."
    "In a
sense, Emilio, they were. I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but
I didn't know what they were up to."
    "And you
asked me to find out."
    "Right.
And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my
speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out."
    Imagine. . . to
be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to
tabletalk.
    "But they
didn't corner you," Emilio