EMPTY ROOMS + RELIGIOUS CALLING:
AN ANTIDOTE TO LEAVING THE HOMELESS IN THE COLD
In the best of all possible worlds, all homeless people would transition into independence and off the public dole. That is happening to some significant degree via agencies whose sole purpose is to provide the resources and guidance to move the homeless into productive lives. These initiatives are still receiving considerable public funding, as they should be. The premise is one to which liberals and conservatives should both subscribe: It breaks the vicious cycle of welfare dependency.
So much for the best. Chronic homelessness will always be among us. Once "cursing the bums" subsides, I hope we would agree that barebones emergency shelter for even the most persistently homeless is a societal mandate. The alternative would likely be sleeping in a rusted car or under a viaduct. Besides, they are not all "bums." Homeless also includes blameless babies, abused women and people without means who are mentally/physically disabled. We can let them starve or freeze, or we can provide them a roof, a cot, a shower and at least a bologna sandwich.
Ask anyone who works with homeless people. The emergency shelters are already full. People are on waiting lists. Resources are depleted. Babies are out on the street for want of any port in the storm. And, it is not yet even winter.
Public funding for emergency shelter? Yes, the issue is debatable. But, this I do know: Public funding should not be an issue. Drive up and down your neighborhood. Look at all the big houses of worship. Look at all the rooms with lights off. Look at all the unutilized space. Look at the kitchens that are used once, maybe twice, a week. Look at how few houses of worship provide a meal and shelter for the homeless. Despite their heroic efforts, look at how few houses of worship even offer their space to initiatives like Interfaith Hospitality Network.
Sometimes it is tough to figure out whose job it is to provide essential community services. In this instance, there is no question. Houses of worship not only have the divine mandate to feed the hungry and offer refuge to the homeless. Many of them also have the space, manpower and wherewithal to bring homeless people under their roof, at least during the coldest months of winter. They are not doing it. They may contribute generously to other overtaxed ministries and agencies, but their own space remains clean, heated, lighted . . . and unoccupied.
Lots of programs in houses of worship come into being from the bottom up. Well-motivated, eager laypeople can pull together the resources to do honorable things. But, the mandate to do something so visionary and aggressive as providing shelter for the homeless demands a top-down initiative. Bluntly, if your congregation is ever to provide shelter, it will emerge from bold call from the Sabbath pulpit by the senior pastor/rabbi/priest. Pastoral "support" is not sufficient. Unless the charge comes as a prophetic imperative from the congregation's highest spiritual leadership, lay-driven efforts will likely not sustain the energy for such a demanding undertaking.
I speak from a modicum of personal experience. Calls from my own pulpit in 1982 and 1986 established the first two synagogue-based shelters in the country. I would like to say that I was the "founder" of the shelters, but the best I can aver is that I was their primary stimulant. From that point on, the laity made it their vision, and all I need to provide was encouragement and some personal time working in the trenches.
Every pastor must know that feeding and sheltering the homeless is a biblical imperative. It is literally the punchline of Isaiah 58. ("This is the fast I desire . . .to share your bread with the hungry and to take the wretched poor into your home.") I will not debate the issue of "salvation by grace through faith" versus "salvation by works," but I have read the Synoptic Gospels. From those it seems clear what Jesus would do, even without looking at a WWJD bracelet. Hence, this issue is not "Should the preacher preach about it?" but "Will the preacher preach about it?"
Every homeless person we see huddled under a viaduct should tug at our conscience. But, every persistently unutilized room in a house of worship should evoke words like "shame," and "dishonor," and "disgrace." That profound sin of omission should lead us directly to the study of our minister/rabbi/priest, where our appeal should bear the reminder that before one can save the world, he must bring the "wretched poor " into his home.
September 24, 2003
September 17, 2003
WHAT IS THE SENSE? INDEED, WHAT IS THE SENSE?
You may not have seen the story last week, and if you didn’t, I certainly don’t blame you. It got short shrift, no more than a passing mention if at all, in the national and local media. This, despite the extraordinary tragedy, the bloody death of an American citizen and his daughter, on the eve of her wedding.
I got the news via a blurb in the New York Times, confirmed it via a lengthier story in the Jerusalem Post, and have spent my days under a shroud of helplessness and depression ever since. I requested from the local news editor and a reporter that they tell the heart-rending story, perhaps even through my eyes as a grieving friend, but I got neither yes nor no, just silence on the other end. Something, I had hoped, to put a human face on far-away terror, a story with which any loving parents and decent being could identify.
David Applebaum was a classmate from yeshiva days. We were not the closest of friends, but we did pal around a bit, share an occasional lighthearted moment, maybe because I was the only one nearby who had a car. Transportation from Skokie to Rogers Park was a highly valued commodity.
But, I knew David Applebaum. He was the only kid in seminary at that time that still wore old-world payes, the traditional unshorn forelocks. He prayed with particular fervor. He observed the commandments meticulously. He excelled in his studies.
We have come to expect that young people of such deportment almost invariably suffer from terminal religiosity and seriousness. David, from all appearances, transcended the stereotype. A dead-on sense of humor. A healthy dose of sarcasm. An ingratiating streak of goofiness. A demeanor that bespoke his reluctance to take himself and the yeshiva milieu, which he loved, too seriously.
We all knew that David would achieve. And he did. After his rabbinic ordination, he went off to med school, where again he excelled, and for reasons yet looming serendipitously on the horizon, he specialized, then lectured prolifically, in emergency medicine. Then he resettled in Israel and started a family.
I cannot tell you why, but even early on, I sensed that David had an entrepreneurial inclination. At best, this seemed an oxymoron when played off against his altruism. One could only assume that his destiny was to an altruistic deployment of his sense of promotion. (Who else but David, I thought, would imagine treating a group of visitors to the Jerusalem emergency center he founded with a Texas-style barbecue?)
And, so it was. He was the invariable first-on-scene responder to every attack and bombing, even performing battlefield surgery under fire. He directed emergency services at Jerusalem’s Shaare Zedek Hospital. He founded a network of not-for-profit emergency clinics. To visit the clinics’ website, www.terem.com, is to see the amalgam of entrepreneurial spirit and idealism made manifest.
Then, on the eve of his daughter’s wedding, he and his daughter became the victims. A late-night stroll, a snack in a trendy Jerusalem café, chit-chat about the wedding . . . a suicide bombing. And, no time for a surrogate David Applebaum to save the lives of David and Nava Applebaum. Funerals instead of a wedding.
No, I had not kept in touch with David. In some odd way, that made watching his accomplishments from afar seem even sweeter, and his brutal death even more traumatic. Oddly, too, my impulse is not the desire to kill ten Palestinians to avenge David’s death. It is not to debate the philosophical or political implications of “moral equivalency,” or the absence thereof. It is to grieve the lost of a decent, giving, dare I say saintly, man, the loss of a life-giver, not a life-taker, and his innocent daughter-bride, whose dedicated work was to treat children suffering from cancer. It is to cry bitter tears over the senselessness of violent, hateful death, any violent, hateful death whatsoever.
It is to scream a helpless, yet-to-be-hearkened-to scream at anyone, everyone, who yet believes that violence paves the way to humanity’s highest destiny, not to the depths of hell. It is to scream, “Can you not see – whomever you are – that you are killing doctors and brides and babies along with your combatants and terrorists?”
Indeed, can we not see? Indeed, what is the sense? What is the sense?
You may not have seen the story last week, and if you didn’t, I certainly don’t blame you. It got short shrift, no more than a passing mention if at all, in the national and local media. This, despite the extraordinary tragedy, the bloody death of an American citizen and his daughter, on the eve of her wedding.
I got the news via a blurb in the New York Times, confirmed it via a lengthier story in the Jerusalem Post, and have spent my days under a shroud of helplessness and depression ever since. I requested from the local news editor and a reporter that they tell the heart-rending story, perhaps even through my eyes as a grieving friend, but I got neither yes nor no, just silence on the other end. Something, I had hoped, to put a human face on far-away terror, a story with which any loving parents and decent being could identify.
David Applebaum was a classmate from yeshiva days. We were not the closest of friends, but we did pal around a bit, share an occasional lighthearted moment, maybe because I was the only one nearby who had a car. Transportation from Skokie to Rogers Park was a highly valued commodity.
But, I knew David Applebaum. He was the only kid in seminary at that time that still wore old-world payes, the traditional unshorn forelocks. He prayed with particular fervor. He observed the commandments meticulously. He excelled in his studies.
We have come to expect that young people of such deportment almost invariably suffer from terminal religiosity and seriousness. David, from all appearances, transcended the stereotype. A dead-on sense of humor. A healthy dose of sarcasm. An ingratiating streak of goofiness. A demeanor that bespoke his reluctance to take himself and the yeshiva milieu, which he loved, too seriously.
We all knew that David would achieve. And he did. After his rabbinic ordination, he went off to med school, where again he excelled, and for reasons yet looming serendipitously on the horizon, he specialized, then lectured prolifically, in emergency medicine. Then he resettled in Israel and started a family.
I cannot tell you why, but even early on, I sensed that David had an entrepreneurial inclination. At best, this seemed an oxymoron when played off against his altruism. One could only assume that his destiny was to an altruistic deployment of his sense of promotion. (Who else but David, I thought, would imagine treating a group of visitors to the Jerusalem emergency center he founded with a Texas-style barbecue?)
And, so it was. He was the invariable first-on-scene responder to every attack and bombing, even performing battlefield surgery under fire. He directed emergency services at Jerusalem’s Shaare Zedek Hospital. He founded a network of not-for-profit emergency clinics. To visit the clinics’ website, www.terem.com, is to see the amalgam of entrepreneurial spirit and idealism made manifest.
Then, on the eve of his daughter’s wedding, he and his daughter became the victims. A late-night stroll, a snack in a trendy Jerusalem café, chit-chat about the wedding . . . a suicide bombing. And, no time for a surrogate David Applebaum to save the lives of David and Nava Applebaum. Funerals instead of a wedding.
No, I had not kept in touch with David. In some odd way, that made watching his accomplishments from afar seem even sweeter, and his brutal death even more traumatic. Oddly, too, my impulse is not the desire to kill ten Palestinians to avenge David’s death. It is not to debate the philosophical or political implications of “moral equivalency,” or the absence thereof. It is to grieve the lost of a decent, giving, dare I say saintly, man, the loss of a life-giver, not a life-taker, and his innocent daughter-bride, whose dedicated work was to treat children suffering from cancer. It is to cry bitter tears over the senselessness of violent, hateful death, any violent, hateful death whatsoever.
It is to scream a helpless, yet-to-be-hearkened-to scream at anyone, everyone, who yet believes that violence paves the way to humanity’s highest destiny, not to the depths of hell. It is to scream, “Can you not see – whomever you are – that you are killing doctors and brides and babies along with your combatants and terrorists?”
Indeed, can we not see? Indeed, what is the sense? What is the sense?
September 11, 2003
PATRIOTISM – BLUBBERING AND SUBSTANCE
What was the 9-11 commemoration like in your community? Were you even there?
I have this stomach-souring feeling that, despite our blubbering about “remember this” and “remember that” and sanctimonious flag-waving, most towns’ observances were lame, vapid events to which almost nobody came.
That is certainly the way it was in my hometown of Greenville, South Carolina, where the airwaves and letters to the editor reek of that volatile amalgam of blustery patriotism, fundamentalist Christianity and mean-spirited conservatism.
Actually, the ceremony itself was touching and thoughtfully scheduled before the normal workday began. A courageous EMT who volunteered for the toughest duty at Ground Zero brought stirring testimony. The piper’s haunting lament of Amazing Grace choked so many of us with tears.
The headcount was underwhelming, but let the laity square that with their own consciences. I have to believe that the crowd would have been greater were local clergy and public officials more encouraging of attendance, or had at least made the effort to make their own personal appearance.
So, let me start with my own ilk:
You could count the number of clergy who were present on the fingers of one hand. Many of them had received multiple emails urging their attendance, and all of them saw – or should have seen – the repeated announcements in the newspaper and media.
Do I speak for your community when I ask, where were you, fellow clergy? I betcha that I do. And, fellow clergy, do not tell us that you were there “in spirit.” Nothing short of your physical presence would have elevated the spiritual morale of the assemblage. Nothing short of your physical presence would have ordained you as spiritual leaders and moral exemplars in a time of tortured spirit and shaken faith. Nothing short of your physical presence would have given substance to this constant yammering about living by “biblical values.”
Even if you conducted a commemoration in your own congregation – which I bet most of you did not – it certainly does not substitute for your presence at a commemoration at “ground zero” of the community, particularly for those of us who protest that the spirituality has been sucked out of our secular city.
While I am on a rant, we ought direct our ire equally toward our elected officials. In Greenville’s case, the mayor was there, likewise the mayor pro-tem and the sheriff and one associate. The non-elected public servants, the real heroes, the ones who protect you and me – police, fire, EMS – were there in significant number. The rest of the political hacks, Democratic and Republican, were absent.
So, let us say it to our elected officials: You have been invested with the public trust. Your visibility would have contributed more than a spiritual aura to the occasion; it would have conferred an example of civic duty upon it. When a community unites to celebrate, you should be there. When a city unites to mourn and pledge new resolve, you should certainly be there.
No, do not protest that you had an excused absence, either. No priority should have been higher. Whatever else that was calling you should have been deferred to unite as one – liberal and conservative – to affirm the transcendent values of liberty and patriotism, not vice versa.
And finally, a word about “patriotism.” How easy it is to chant it as an empty slogan before a hopped-up throng. How easy it is to squeeze the substance out of one of the proudest words in the American vocabulary. How could you, civic officials, not seize a quintessential opportunity to affirm your patriotism, especially you in your star-spangled neckties and omnipresent lapel pins, especially you who justify every specious action you take under the guise of patriotism?
Did you not tell us in our backward little county that a holiday to honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was “anti-patriotic”? Did you not invoke patriotism to justify school prayer and Bible reading? Did you not call social welfare programs “unpatriotic”? Dare we question not only your policies but also the real substance of your patriotism?
OK, I participated, so I can afford to wax self-righteous. For that I make no apology. I have no other way to gain your attention. If we are going to wax self-righteous, nine times out of ten it should be over matters of substance. But, that one remaining time out of ten, we dare do it over important symbolism, the kind of symbolism that could go so far to unite woefully disunited communities and spark spirit in places that too often seems so devoid of spirit.
So much for our recollection of treachery and valor. The months ahead will afford many other civic opportunities to make amends. Where will you be?
What was the 9-11 commemoration like in your community? Were you even there?
I have this stomach-souring feeling that, despite our blubbering about “remember this” and “remember that” and sanctimonious flag-waving, most towns’ observances were lame, vapid events to which almost nobody came.
That is certainly the way it was in my hometown of Greenville, South Carolina, where the airwaves and letters to the editor reek of that volatile amalgam of blustery patriotism, fundamentalist Christianity and mean-spirited conservatism.
Actually, the ceremony itself was touching and thoughtfully scheduled before the normal workday began. A courageous EMT who volunteered for the toughest duty at Ground Zero brought stirring testimony. The piper’s haunting lament of Amazing Grace choked so many of us with tears.
The headcount was underwhelming, but let the laity square that with their own consciences. I have to believe that the crowd would have been greater were local clergy and public officials more encouraging of attendance, or had at least made the effort to make their own personal appearance.
So, let me start with my own ilk:
You could count the number of clergy who were present on the fingers of one hand. Many of them had received multiple emails urging their attendance, and all of them saw – or should have seen – the repeated announcements in the newspaper and media.
Do I speak for your community when I ask, where were you, fellow clergy? I betcha that I do. And, fellow clergy, do not tell us that you were there “in spirit.” Nothing short of your physical presence would have elevated the spiritual morale of the assemblage. Nothing short of your physical presence would have ordained you as spiritual leaders and moral exemplars in a time of tortured spirit and shaken faith. Nothing short of your physical presence would have given substance to this constant yammering about living by “biblical values.”
Even if you conducted a commemoration in your own congregation – which I bet most of you did not – it certainly does not substitute for your presence at a commemoration at “ground zero” of the community, particularly for those of us who protest that the spirituality has been sucked out of our secular city.
While I am on a rant, we ought direct our ire equally toward our elected officials. In Greenville’s case, the mayor was there, likewise the mayor pro-tem and the sheriff and one associate. The non-elected public servants, the real heroes, the ones who protect you and me – police, fire, EMS – were there in significant number. The rest of the political hacks, Democratic and Republican, were absent.
So, let us say it to our elected officials: You have been invested with the public trust. Your visibility would have contributed more than a spiritual aura to the occasion; it would have conferred an example of civic duty upon it. When a community unites to celebrate, you should be there. When a city unites to mourn and pledge new resolve, you should certainly be there.
No, do not protest that you had an excused absence, either. No priority should have been higher. Whatever else that was calling you should have been deferred to unite as one – liberal and conservative – to affirm the transcendent values of liberty and patriotism, not vice versa.
And finally, a word about “patriotism.” How easy it is to chant it as an empty slogan before a hopped-up throng. How easy it is to squeeze the substance out of one of the proudest words in the American vocabulary. How could you, civic officials, not seize a quintessential opportunity to affirm your patriotism, especially you in your star-spangled neckties and omnipresent lapel pins, especially you who justify every specious action you take under the guise of patriotism?
Did you not tell us in our backward little county that a holiday to honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was “anti-patriotic”? Did you not invoke patriotism to justify school prayer and Bible reading? Did you not call social welfare programs “unpatriotic”? Dare we question not only your policies but also the real substance of your patriotism?
OK, I participated, so I can afford to wax self-righteous. For that I make no apology. I have no other way to gain your attention. If we are going to wax self-righteous, nine times out of ten it should be over matters of substance. But, that one remaining time out of ten, we dare do it over important symbolism, the kind of symbolism that could go so far to unite woefully disunited communities and spark spirit in places that too often seems so devoid of spirit.
So much for our recollection of treachery and valor. The months ahead will afford many other civic opportunities to make amends. Where will you be?
September 07, 2003
“HOLINESS” DEFINED BY A COLLECTION OF SACRED SNIPPETS
I was not cut out for theology.
I must have been absent on the day they taught us in yeshiva about how to define "holy." Three decades have passed, and it has not gotten any easier. I have hundreds of books and articles on the subject. They have all been nice, philosophically subtle, linguistically rich, but frankly, they have bored me to tears. Worse, they have confused me more than the legalese on the back of a Visa statement.
In my childish simplicity, I always figure that if God wanted everyone to be holy -- and "everyone" included cleaning crews, short-order cooks and truck drivers, along with theologians and philosophers -- S/He would not, just out of spite, have created a definition for holiness that was so confusing, abstract and unattainable that us simple folks would never “get it.”
Yes, it is easier to define holiness by its negation. Certain images of life instinctively set off an internal alarm that shouts "Not Holy!" Madonna and Britney open-mouthed smooching – not holy. Bin Laden, despite numerous pilgrimages to Mecca -- not holy. Marc Wilson, when he is arrogant or nasty or spiteful or cruel – not holy.
An entire catalogue of snippets and vignettes of disreputable people and events comes to mind the moment we hear "not holy." Could the converse also be true? Could it be, with deference to Justice Potter Stewart, that holiness is one of those things that we might never be able to define, but that we recognize by instinct?
Perhaps holiness is nothing more mystical than doing what is right because it is right, because it affirms the creative and moral forces of the universe, not because someone is looking.
Snippets of "holy" are all around us in the most unsuspecting places, if we would just move our hands away from our eyes. Take as an example a recollection of my mom and dad, intensified by their deaths, that feels as if it happened just yesterday. And, especially so when I repeat it over (yes, and over) to my kids:
My mother has just been wheeled back from cataract surgery to a cubicle in the recovery room. The IV is still dripping in her arm. She is propped up on the gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a hospital gown, no one else in the cubicle but my father and me. Her breakfast is sitting in front of her. She seems perfectly alert, she has been NPO since midnight, she usually has a fine appetite . . . but she is not eating.
We want to know what is wrong, but it is not until I draw very close that I hear in a barely audible whisper, "Baruch she-amar vi-hayah ha-olam . . . Praised is God whose command created the world. Praised is He, Author of all Creation . . . “
Only then do I realize that nothing is wrong, but that my mother is praying, as she prays every morning, before embarking on this long delayed and much-deserved repast of cereal and a banana. She is simply uttering the same litany that she recites every morning of her life.
I still cannot tell you precisely why, but that moment will forever be etched in my mind as a snippet of holiness. Perhaps it was simply the sight of a sincere and pious woman engaged in simple, understated communion with God, for no other reason but that it was right to be in such simple, understated communion.
A moment later, I leave the cubicle to make a phone call. When I return, I recognize instantly that I am intruding on another bit of holiness that I will carry with me forever:
My elderly dad, once a man of empirical science and technology, now drifting into the early stages of Alzheimer’s, is tenderly stroking the forehead of his wife of decades, the two of them cooing at each other like a couple of love-goopy newlyweds. Another sacred snippet.
I am through with convoluted textbook definitions of holiness. What is relevant is that we go through life with a series of radiant images that, by Pavlovian instinct, should flash into our minds whenever we think or hear "holy," and whenever we hear within ourselves the yearning to live our years as more than couch potatoes or party animals.
And sometimes, even when we are not thinking about holiness, it would really not hurt to run through that lexicon of snippets to reassure ourselves that holiness is not in some far-off heaven.
Amazing. Even in this goofy world, little snippets of holy are all around. Catch them while you can, before the camera breaks away for another look at what's happening with Ben and J Lo.
I was not cut out for theology.
I must have been absent on the day they taught us in yeshiva about how to define "holy." Three decades have passed, and it has not gotten any easier. I have hundreds of books and articles on the subject. They have all been nice, philosophically subtle, linguistically rich, but frankly, they have bored me to tears. Worse, they have confused me more than the legalese on the back of a Visa statement.
In my childish simplicity, I always figure that if God wanted everyone to be holy -- and "everyone" included cleaning crews, short-order cooks and truck drivers, along with theologians and philosophers -- S/He would not, just out of spite, have created a definition for holiness that was so confusing, abstract and unattainable that us simple folks would never “get it.”
Yes, it is easier to define holiness by its negation. Certain images of life instinctively set off an internal alarm that shouts "Not Holy!" Madonna and Britney open-mouthed smooching – not holy. Bin Laden, despite numerous pilgrimages to Mecca -- not holy. Marc Wilson, when he is arrogant or nasty or spiteful or cruel – not holy.
An entire catalogue of snippets and vignettes of disreputable people and events comes to mind the moment we hear "not holy." Could the converse also be true? Could it be, with deference to Justice Potter Stewart, that holiness is one of those things that we might never be able to define, but that we recognize by instinct?
Perhaps holiness is nothing more mystical than doing what is right because it is right, because it affirms the creative and moral forces of the universe, not because someone is looking.
Snippets of "holy" are all around us in the most unsuspecting places, if we would just move our hands away from our eyes. Take as an example a recollection of my mom and dad, intensified by their deaths, that feels as if it happened just yesterday. And, especially so when I repeat it over (yes, and over) to my kids:
My mother has just been wheeled back from cataract surgery to a cubicle in the recovery room. The IV is still dripping in her arm. She is propped up on the gurney in that ridiculous wisp of a hospital gown, no one else in the cubicle but my father and me. Her breakfast is sitting in front of her. She seems perfectly alert, she has been NPO since midnight, she usually has a fine appetite . . . but she is not eating.
We want to know what is wrong, but it is not until I draw very close that I hear in a barely audible whisper, "Baruch she-amar vi-hayah ha-olam . . . Praised is God whose command created the world. Praised is He, Author of all Creation . . . “
Only then do I realize that nothing is wrong, but that my mother is praying, as she prays every morning, before embarking on this long delayed and much-deserved repast of cereal and a banana. She is simply uttering the same litany that she recites every morning of her life.
I still cannot tell you precisely why, but that moment will forever be etched in my mind as a snippet of holiness. Perhaps it was simply the sight of a sincere and pious woman engaged in simple, understated communion with God, for no other reason but that it was right to be in such simple, understated communion.
A moment later, I leave the cubicle to make a phone call. When I return, I recognize instantly that I am intruding on another bit of holiness that I will carry with me forever:
My elderly dad, once a man of empirical science and technology, now drifting into the early stages of Alzheimer’s, is tenderly stroking the forehead of his wife of decades, the two of them cooing at each other like a couple of love-goopy newlyweds. Another sacred snippet.
I am through with convoluted textbook definitions of holiness. What is relevant is that we go through life with a series of radiant images that, by Pavlovian instinct, should flash into our minds whenever we think or hear "holy," and whenever we hear within ourselves the yearning to live our years as more than couch potatoes or party animals.
And sometimes, even when we are not thinking about holiness, it would really not hurt to run through that lexicon of snippets to reassure ourselves that holiness is not in some far-off heaven.
Amazing. Even in this goofy world, little snippets of holy are all around. Catch them while you can, before the camera breaks away for another look at what's happening with Ben and J Lo.
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