That is not to suggest that we can live harmlessly, or strictly at our own expense; we depend upon other creatures and survive by their deaths. To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of Creation. When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a sacrament. When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration. In such desecration we condemn ourselves to spiritual and moral loneliness, and others to want.
God is absorbed in work, and hears the spacious hum of bees, not the din, and hears far-off our screams. Perhaps God listens for prayers in that wild solitude. And hurries on with weaving: till it's done, the garment woven, our voices, clear under the familiar blocked-out clamor of the task, can't stop their terrible beseeching. God imagines it sifting through, at last, to music in the astounded quietness, the loom idle, the weaver at rest.
