They breathe incense and say a prayer for conscience. And strength. And a Godspeed journey. En route to safety, supplicants meet an impasse. Unyielding metal vehicles push forward to the blast of mindless pontificating, spewing angry exhaust fumes to fill potholes. Polluting, endangering, inspiring fear. Forks in the road destroy the path to sanctity. Take a wrong turn, you’ll miss heaven’s gate.
At the border, wooden buildings loom. Maybe there’s a cross, maybe inside is sanctuary. Immunity for fugitives who flee to sacred ground. A medieval state of mind, a modern state of grace. Decried in the rush to judgement.
