Home is where the heart is not famished, the eye not starved, the Sacred not banished or desecrated. The Sacred cannot be caught in formulas. It cannot be analyzed, not even in terms of ecology, as beauty cannot be caught in the semantics of esthetics. Fingers pointing toward the Transcendent need no vocabulary, for they do not preach. Beyond the dialects of all religions they witness to a religious attitude toward life itself.
~ from FINGERS POINTING TOWARD THE SACRED by Frederick Franck
George Buttrick, an imaginative preacher, wrote poignantly, "We die with half our
music in us." How sad, not that we die, but that we leave so much unsung, not having
exhausted our melody.
