May/June 2018 • Vol. XL No. 3 Fiction |

The Minister

Easter is less than a week away and I'm making notes for my sermon as I wait and wait at the Hy-Vee deli counter for my lunch order. It's just a turkey and cheese on rye, but since McNally's closed last fall this is the only place in town to get a decent sandwich, and the line is long. I don't mind. For once I've remembered to bring a notebook and I'm scribbling away, trying to get this sermon right. Easter morning is easy, all miracles and disbelief. But the sermon I'm working on now is for the Easter Vigil, Saturday night's solemn herald of Sunday morning's hallelujahs. At the Vigil I want to talk about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. By the time he enters Gethsemane the Last Supper is over; in a matter of hours he will be captured and crucified. Jesus slips into the garden and his disciples, who are supposed to guard him, promptly fall asleep. I want to exonerate them, to suggest that they were not negligent or lazy, just frightened and sad and so closed their eyes against the

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Aguacero

By Patricia Engel

Easter is less than a week away and I'm making notes for my sermon as I wait and wait at the Hy-Vee deli counter for my lunch order. It's just […]

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