Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Nothing pains an author more than missed deadlines, and, that others suffer thereby as well, compounds the injury within the mind of the sensitive cleric, for, from the day he had dedicated himself to the service of others through the use of words, not as a mere performer, but a smith who bends the language into useful forms for good or ill, as the case may be, and not, truly, as a thinker, whose thoughts so surpass the ordinary as to find faults in words, whose soul winces at puns, but a shepherd who gathers sheep of different quality and temperament back into a single fold by dint of his voice, though they had gathered and mixed with sheep of another, and who zealously guards against these sheep following a wayward or dangerous course, and all this he does, not with airs of superiority, but with an attitude of detachment that permits him to maintain his focus when words fail, as well as to let the language flourish when he feels anguished and exhausted,  so that his neighbors may have the tools and the know-how for their own flourishing in their personal lives, whether individually or among friends and family, at work, where jargon threatens to abscond with their minds and trap them in its narrow confines, and in the wider community, understood civically, culturally and historically.

For these reasons, I have requested permission of the editor, that whatever-it-is, to send this apology for my laxity, following the weekend's respite.

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