Sept. 20, 2015
There was a man at the first church I served, north of Boston. His name was Sub, short for Sumner. He was a reedy man with a Pilgrim sort of face: creased with hard work, and serious. I could well picture him, in our 300-year-old church, 300 years earlier, sitting on a hard wooden bench with his King James open before him. Sub was a retired engineer. He had been happily married for a very long time, and in order to stay happily married he had to leave the house every day. And where Sub came was: his church.
