The preacher's job, finally, is to look at every moment of time, every inch of space, to find there the old, old story and to keep reminding everyone who will listen that the curse shall not have the last word.
There is an old story about a mother who walks in on her six-year-old son and finds him sobbing.
"What's the matter?" she asks.
"I've just figured out how to tie my shoes."
"Well, honey, that's wonderful."
Being a wise mother, she recognizes his victory in the Eriksonian struggle of autonomy versus doubt: "You're growing up, but why are you crying?"
"Because," he says, "now I'll have to do it every day for the rest of my life."
Preaching is like that. Sundays just keep coming. Like the Energizer power bunny. Like death and taxes and Slim Whitman Christmas albums. Some months, every other day is a Sunday.
One of the most celebrated of all I Love Lucy episodes features Lucy wrapping candy as it passes on a conveyer belt. In the mistaken belief that Lucy is handling the candy ...1