I used to live on Quintard Road. It’s named for Charles T. Quintard, one of the patron saints of Sewanee, Tennessee.
In America, we use angels to sell pretty good toilet paper and terrible lingerie. We’re not much for the six-winged terror holding a burning coal to the prophet’s lips (Isaiah 6:2-7). We prefer fat cherubs with harps to sentinels with spinning, flaming swords (Genesis 3:24). Our angels aren’t divine messengers, and they don’t start their sentences with, “Fear not!” They are boring and uncool.
Listen, I’m not saying I once elevated a communion wafer with a robot arm. That would have been Inappropriate. People would be rightly concerned that such irreverence would cause Jesus to jump out of that wafer as fast as he jumped in.
Last Sunday I had to bat cleanup after my own sermon. Sometime during the Nicene Creed, I realized that I’d left something out. It was an important point with significant pastoral implications.