Transcribed Text

E RWhy we're the poor. The reel plays backward, everything's reversed when the gospel is in the air. The clothes fly off Dives, he's negro, he's nothing, he's got his hand out forever. Empty as a turned up skull. Watch the reel now--it's important to see which way the bread is passing. To you, to me! We're in luck. This is our day. The poor have it hard, the saying goes. Well, we're the hardest thing they have. Do you know I think sometime if we poor rich are ever going to grow up into faith, it will only be because poor men are around--everywhere, always, everywhere, drunks, winos, junkeys, the defeated, the ne'er do wells, those who didn't make it on to our guarded spoiled playground. And those who never wanted to play our game and whose rags are therefore a kind of riches we will never wear. All of them, a special Providence, a holy rain and sun, falling equably on the unjust, the smooth con men, the well oiled Cadillac humans and inhumans, the purblind, those who made it, the Christians and their impure Gods in cupboards and backs and nuclear silos, the white unchristian west, all of us. Who but for the poor would never know who we are, or where we came from or where we are (just possibly) going,-- inspite of tons of catechisms and the ten edition of the Handbook for Instant Salvation and the best of sellers, I Kept You Know Who Out and Found God.On the cloud of unknowing; hog blind as bats. Then a poor man (they are all miracle men, they have to be to live one day in our world) stands there. His poverty is like a few loaves and fishes--enough for everyone! He breaks and breaks bread and feeds us and we live up again and again literally bottomless with sour need, going for broke, sore and ill tempered and jostling one another, hearing the word pass down the line, there's hardly any left, resenting straining forward in a frenzy of despair. But there's always enough.