Standing here like this, on a rough hillside in morning sun with Tiberias that way, at the lake's edge, and below, to my left, the few bleached columns of a Capernaum that is now no more than a dream glimmering brokenly in its fragile shade, I see—suddenly— Not a decorous congregation arranged in rows, and wearing Sunday instead of Everyday clothes! With altar; and ritual; and walls raised up, great stone upon stone, to separate and enclose. O nothing—nothing like that, at all! For here really here not embalmed in a tale! somebody daily walked about.
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