He would deliver a sermon unlike any he had delivered before.
“Do you think that because we have learned that the sun does not go down, that in fact we are going around it at a dizzying speed, the sun is not the only star in the heavens, do you think this means we are any less important than we thought we were? Oh, we are far less important than we thought we were, and we are far, far more important than we think we are. Do you imagine that the scientist and the poet are not united? Do you assume you can answer the question of who we are and why we are here by rational thought alone? It is your job, your honor, your birthright, to bear the burden of this mystery, and it is your job to ask in every thought, word, and deed, ‘How can love best be served?’ God is not served when you speak with relish about those who are poor in spirit and cannot be defended. God is not served when you ignore the poverty of spirit within yourselves.”
The sky was growing light by the time he put his pencil down. Reading the pages over, he discovered that he had broken a cardinal rule of homiletics. He had used the word ‘you’ instead of ‘we.’
He sat for a long time wondering about this, then he washed his face and fell asleep on the couch.